7
by Josephinee
Summary: Gluttony, lust, greed, wrath, pride, sloth, envy - the exact seven sins they could easily apply to their complex, undeniable, and most of all, mutually unwanted attraction.
1. Gluttony

Yes, I'm still on that break. Yes, it is stupid of me to start another story. But, to be fair, it'll only contain seven chapters. I don't know if I'll get to update as frequently as I managed to update my other stories, but I'll do my best.

If you're offended by profanity, however slight, please turn and go away. Cheers.

**Disclaimer_:_** I do not own anything Harry Potter related, as unfortunate as this may be.

* * *

_Whiskey River, don't run dry  
You're all I got to carry me  
I'm drowning in a Whiskey River_

Willie Nelson - 'Whiskey River'

* * *

**1. G L U T T O N Y**

"So, Scorpius," began an obviously giddy girl, her high-pitched voice no more than a whisper, "have you caught on with the latest news yet?"

The platinum-haired, pale-skinned wizard sitting on the couch next to her took a sip of his coffee (jet-black, no cream, no sugar – he was a _man_, in his books at least) and awarded her with a trademark apathy shining in his cold grey eyes. Although a Slytherin, the brunette in front of him had never particularly interested him, and he couldn't see why she would start to do so now. His natural curiosity was instantly dimmed by the fact that the only memories he held of her were utterly dull – as she herself was rather unintelligent (... completely brain dead) and water always found its own level, she only spoke of people who couldn't produce a decent Accio spell. Plus, most of the rumours she spread around weren't accurate anyway – no surprise there.

"Pray tell, Clearwater, but try not to speak faster than your intelligence allows you to," he therefore drawled, knowing that she'd stupidly think it was meant as a joke.

"_Well_," her square face split into a wide smile, "first of all – Rose Weasley broke up with Lysander Scamander yesterday."

He didn't know what effect she desired. Did she expect him to squeal like a teenage girl, inquiring _really, seriously, are you sure that's not a lie?_ Did she expect him to jump up and hug her, kiss her feet maybe, because she'd been the fortunate messenger, bearer of The Good News?

Because, _Jesus_.

He was a Malfoy. Malfoys scarcely displayed any kind of superfluous emotion, preferably none at all, attempting at all times to remain calm and collected and enigmatic. The flaw in this family name theory, was that what Clearwater had told him actually _did_ cause something in his chest to leap, to react in a way that was completely inconvenient and unfamiliar to the boot, for Rose Weasley was a _Weasley_ – and Weasleys certainly shouldn't elicit anything in a Malfoy, really, apart from disgust and hatred just for the sake of it.

"And exactly _how_ should this affect me?" Scorpius arched a refined eyebrow, hoping for his sarcastic tone to cover up his inner questioning.

Why Had Hogwarts' Golden Couple Finally Split?

How Torn Up Was She About It?

Had He Cheated On Her?

Had She Cheated On Him?

Capital questioning. It swirled through his head aggravatingly, and it even slightly bothered him that he couldn't just interrogate Clearwater. Though she'd be delighted to tell him, she'd also comprehend (somewhere in that thick skull of hers) that Rose Weasley interested him more than other people generally did, since he virtually never stopped to actually listen to any of Clearwater's stories.

"Oh, come on, everyone thought they were going to get married or something. I think it's big news."

"How exciting your life must be," he muttered under his breath, but when she asked him to repeat himself, he merely shook his head. He figured the sardonic approach was one plausible path to take. "You reckon they hexed each other?"

"Hexed each other?" Clearwater asked, looking at him with a blank expression. "Why would they hex each other?"

Scorpius sighed, refraining from rubbing his temples in impatience. "Just tell me what the fuck happened and then leave me alone, okay?"

The offended look on her face indicated that he'd acted on a senseless impulse, he realised, for he actually needed the information, urgently even, and he'd nearly blown his cover. To anyone possessing the ability to observe, his comment had meant only one thing: that he was only listening out of sheer interest and not because he liked the Clearwater girl. And, unfortunate as this was, that was absolutely the opposite of what he aimed to achieve.

"My excuses," he thus crawled back, "I must say I'm rather short-tempered today. Got back an E on that History test earlier, and you know my father doesn't tolerate poor grades."

Not that an E was a poor grade – not at all. Clearwater had probably never seen one in her entire life. It also happened to be that he was quite sure she didn't know what kind of man his father was – except for Death Eater yada yada yada everyone had heard about – but hell, it couldn't be that complicated to get back into her good graces, now could it?

"Yeah, I get it, I get it," she said, but just when he wanted to be relieved, she continued, "the only thing I know from my sources – " _Sources_, he thought, rolling his eyes inwardly, " – is that she apparently wasn't in love with him anymore. They parted as _friends_. Can you believe that? Friends! That's just _so_ typical!"

He had to admit she had a point there. A small feeling of glee shuddered through his stomach, because even though stories about nasty hexes would've amused him, the thought of her no longer being blinded by the Scamander freak amused him just a little bit more. He momentarily relished in the thought of him bawling like a baby in the men's bathroom, but quickly averted his attention back to his housemate, who was staring at him with barely concealed enthusiasm.

"Very true, Clearwater," he said bemused. "As much as I'd like to discuss things further with you though, I have Quidditch practise to attend." He stood up from the comfortable couch, flattened his robe, and made sure his tie was perfectly in place. "I'll see you later, I assume?" Although he really hoped not, with all of his heart.

"Oh, wait!" She called him as his back turned to her. "There's a party in the Ravenclaw Tower this evening and we're invited. That's the second thing I wanted to tell you."

An image of Rose Weasley flashed before his eyes as he nodded at Clearwater. He let the door fall closed behind him as he left, his footsteps on the stone floor echoing through the dungeons. The thought of parties always cheered him up, especially if _she_'d be present. He smirked to himself, Clearwater's story drowning out everything else.

This _definitely_ had the potential to be fun.

* * *

Although Ravenclaw didn't exactly have the greatest reputation as far as parties went, they'd outdone themselves this night – their round common room was swarming with people, yelling, laughing, drinking, and the noise almost made Scorpius' eardrums pop. He arrived when the feast was already in full swing – a habit of his, really, because arriving before things were interesting was just _that_; uninteresting – and with one swift scan, he noticed a lot of Slytherins in the room. Unwillingly, he sought out a mass of red curls as well, but saw nothing of that sort and decided she'd come later. Then he vaguely wondered how much trouble this party would cause if one of the teachers caught wind of it, but the thought was instantly pushed away as someone shoved a cup of Butterbeer in his hands.

"Good evening, mate," came the greeting of his best friend, Stephano Zabini, who swung an arm around his shoulder. "How's it going?"

Scorpius took in the goofy grin on the good-looking, tanned boy's face and scowled. "Considerably more sober than you are."

"Drink up then," Stephano said, pointing at the cup. "Stuff's for free, man. Merlin bless the Ravenclaws." Then, while Scorpius obliged and agreed, Stephano visibly remembered something. "Did you hear about the Rose?"

It never failed to strike him as odd that Stephano and Rose Weasley were on first name basis. In fact; it quite enervated him, because it was blatant proof that despite their differences, they were perfectly allowed to connect, whereas a 'special bond' between Weasley and him would be completely impossible. Besides the obvious – their families, most especially his grandfather – there was also the sad detail that their personalities were like oil and water. They wouldn't mix. He knew that. Maybe he didn't even _want_ them to mix – but no matter how much he'd tried to deny it in the past, he had developed a strange attraction, physical for the biggest part, for her over the course of six years, because, well, she was fit and intelligent and he was absolutely sure that there was something lurking beneath that Popular Good Girl Persona of hers. Stephano would know, probably, but Scorpius couldn't muster up the effort to be nice to her, for it would be unnatural and out of place. The times he'd talked to her had evolved into rather biting banter, and what could he do, really? Proclaim his love for her when he didn't actually _love_ her in the first place? He just _wanted_ her. There's a fundamental difference between physical desire and love - at least to him.

"Scorpius?"

"Oh, yeah," he broke out of his reverie when Stephano nudged him, "Clearwater felt the need to inform me this afternoon in the common room."

"You reckon she knows you – "

But Stephano's question vanished when a group of students ambushed them, brutally interrupting the conversation with loud laughter and drunken yells. Scorpius recognised them to be from Gryffindor (_savages_, he couldn't help himself as this word fleetingly crossed his mind) and thought they looked far too happy for him to be happy, so he prepared himself for an all too cutting remark. Before he had the chance to formulate it, however, Andrew McLaggen stuffed a little white ball into his empty hand.

"What the – "

"We're challenging you," McLaggen said, chuckling, "for Beirut."

It greatly pained him to do so, for it implied that these nitwits were somehow ahead of his knowledge in a certain subject, but he still asked, "What in Merlin's name is _Beirut_?"

"It's a Muggle drinking game," Edward Finnigan, the boy standing next to McLaggen, replied. "You see that table over there?" Scorpius nodded. "Well, there are six cups in a triangle on each side of the table, right?" Scorpius repeated his former movement. "You have to try and throw this ball into one of the cups of your opponent. There are several ways to do that, as you'll find out, and if you do the other has to drink. When you win the other has to drink all of your remaining cups as well, got it?"

Oh for fuck's sake.

His first reaction was that, Jesus, if he wanted to get drunk he'd do so by just _drinking_ – but then, a picture entered his head, a picture of him gloating over those irritating Gryffindors, all sober while they nearly swallowed in their own vomit, proving that, yes, even by a mere, idiosyncratic Muggle drinking game, he could easily outshine them...

"Yeah, got it," he answered, letting his arrogance speak for him.

He followed them to the table, while an audience formed around it as well. He now saw Lily and Albus Potter standing amongst the people, strangely alike and different at the same time, and he vaguely returned their signs of recognition. He knew they'd be cheering on the Gryffindors, but hell, he was a polite boy every now and then.

"We're not playing in teams," McLaggen continued as they faced each other with a table in between them. "Is that okay with you?"

"I'm rather confident about my personal skills, cheers," said Scorpius, a taunting edge ringing through.

McLaggen shrugged. "Let the game begin then," he declared, and threw the little ball towards Scorpius' side. It missed, but only by one third of an inch. The crowd collectively 'Ooooh'd', and Scorpius did his best not to smirk, yet failied miserably. He picked up his own little ball and copied McLaggen's example, albeit more graceful and solid. To his utter distress, he missed the exact same way. The crowd went 'Oooh' again, which made him want to Stun them.

"I'd expected more from you, Malfoy," commented McLaggen casually. "At least _I'm_ drunk."

That did it. After McLaggen missed again, Scorpius' little ball made a perfect bow and landed straight into the second cup of the third row. This time he didn't bother to hide his full-blown smirk while he watched McLaggen downing the Butterbeer. Sadly enough, when he was finished, the loser did manage to throw it in, making Scorpius drink a cup himself, and convincing him he needed a change of tactics. He was a Slytherin, for God's sake! The universe had practically created his kind to lie and cheat, hadn't it?

"Looks like we're equal now, huh," McLaggen grinned for good measure, annoying the hell out of Scorpius.

"Wait and see, McLaggen," _you dim-witted moron_, he quietly added inwardly. "The fun is only about to start."

And that he meant, because then, through gritted teeth, he silently murmured a Confundo charm, causing McLaggen to look even more dazed than he did before. Scorpius carefully made the next shot, magnificently increasing McLaggen's confunded state by extra alcohol. Needless to say, McLaggen missed the next one, the one after that, and eventually, had to drink all of Scorpius' five remaining cups. As he revelled in the cheers of the crowd, he had to say the scene came dangerously close to what he'd imagined in his head earlier. Lots of different faces patted him on the back, congratulating him (how they could think he'd actually played fair was beyond him), and nicely rewarding him with his new nick name: The Beirut Champion. He, of course, acted as if it was nothing – which, really, was true – and pretended not to care about his victory at all, although one would be blind if he couldn't see the haughty glint in his gaze and the content smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I want to challenge you again, Malfoy," he suddenly heard, a hoarse voice reaching him from behind his back.

Turning around, he found Rose Weasley standing there, at last, her hands defiantly on her hips, staring at him with a pair of ocean-coloured eyes from under two raised eyebrows, an air of amusement about her. He thought she looked very much delectable – her hair thrown into a nonchalant ponytail, a few strands falling out here and there, her freckled cheeks flushed due to the warmth in the room. She certainly didn't look like she'd been sobbing her eyes out, he noted, which made him quite happy, seeing as Lysander Scamander was far too much of a whimp to cry over.

"I must say," he replied superciliously, "that's very daring of you, Weasley."

"God, how will I ever survive this excruciatingly impossible quest?" she retaliated sarcastically, brushing past him as she went to take place on the other side of the table. The comment, combined with the subtle brushing, reminded him just why exactly he wanted to shag her so badly.

"Fine," he spoke, still in the same tone. "Let's use Firewhiskey instead of Butterbeer then, shall we?"

For a second, insecurity reflected in her features. Nonetheless, she raised her chin, flicked her wand, and there is was – Firewhiskey at its finest. "Does this live up to your grand expectations, Malfoy?"

"Very much so, love," said Scorpius, running a hand through his hair to reinforce his oh so confident demeanour. It would probably only enervate her, but hell, this was playing games at its best. "I'll even grant you the honour of opening the match."

"How terribly kind of you."

She didn't protest. Instead she flung the little ball onto the table, causing it to bounce back right into his first cup. The action rendered him speechless for a moment, until she ever so casually broke it by saying, "I believe this is the part where you drink."

Muttering an oath that would make him mum scrub his mouth out with soap under his breath, he drank. Thank God he was used to Firewhiskey – imagine the burning sensation actually causing him to _cough_. He'd never live through the humiliation, he was sure. There were, after all, at least fifty fellow students staring down upon the spectacle in front of them – a power struggle between a Weasley and a Malfoy over something as lowly and pathetic as _Beirut_.

"This is great quality, Weasley. Surely you'll agree with me," he said, and with those words he managed a perfect aim at her first cup. With delicious pleasure, he watched as she drank begrudgingly, studying her every subtle move.

"Yes indeed, you were right," she said, not flinching an inch under his scrutinising and piercing eye. "However, surely _you'_ll have the chance to enjoy it more than I will."

And yes, her little ball flew right into the first cup of the second row. She bowed elegantly for the audience and even winked at him as he was forced drink yet another dose of very strong liquor. The girl was clearly enjoying this as much as he was, but he would gladly take the challenge. The nature of their bond was competitive, and this would be no different. If he'd defeat her tonight, there'd be quite a few eyewitnesses and he'd probably tell the tale to one of his grandchildren when he turned ninety. It occured to him that this was a sad attempt at glory, but hell, he'd embellish it a bit (add swords, maybe, something like that) when he told them.

"That is a very strong statement you're telling the world, love," he countered snidely, but to his misery, he missed the next round. At first he thought the alcohol was getting him a little fuzzy, but then he realised –

"You confunded me!" He exclaimed in disbelief.

She widened her doe eyes innocently. "Of course I didn't!" and then bounced the little ball once again in one of his cups. He nearly howled in frustration when he picked it up, but then he noticed her mouthing something to him, something that was meant _only_ for him, "You did to McLaggen too, didn't you?"

And for the second time tonight, he was at loss for words. Quickly regaining his wits, he mouthed back, "I'm Slytherin!"

She ignored him, and soon victory was hers, with him having drunk six cups of Firewhiskey already, and a loud crowd jumping on her, thumping fists with her, carrying her around. Even after the charm had worn off, Scorpius experienced the familiar dazed state and the hindered eyesight too remained. A warm, fuzzy feeling took over his belly, tingling and nice, and with a completely unfounded confidence, he called to Weasley. "I want a rematch!"

And she turned, away from Lily and Albus Potter, smiling brilliantly, and went back to the place behind the table.

Good thing he managed to Confund her even before the game started.

The least he could do was to give it his best shot to make her as drunk as he was.

* * *

Please review, it's always important to hear if there's any interest.

Cheers  
Josephine


	2. Lust

I wrote this in only a couple of hours, so bear with me if it doesn't live up to expections.

I also have an inkling feeling I ought to up the rating. I'm not sure though, so please voice your opinion on the matter...

Again, if profanity offends you, go away or refrain from whining about it. I warned you beforehand, thanks.

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns, but I suppose everyone already knew that.

* * *

_I don't know you  
But I want you  
All the more for that  
Words fall through me  
And always fool me  
And I can't react  
And games that never amount  
To more than they're meant  
Will play themselves out_

Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova - 'Falling Slowly'

* * *

**  
2. L U S T**

She honest to God had no clue what she was doing.

She'd beaten Pretty Boy Malfoy at a pathetic drinking game he seemingly considered so splendiferous by using his own dirty tricks, and yes, she'd be lying if she claimed not to have utterly adored the feeling of surpassing him, for the simple fact that both their pride was on the line, out in the open for everyone to see. He'd known it too, really, but by the time she'd made him drink all those cups he'd been drunk out of his wits and therefore a whole lot less likely to experience the blow the same way he would've in a sober state. She'd liked getting him drunk too, because, as she'd learned from earlier parties, he then became a somewhat better version of himself – less of the cunning, haughty git that has a way of staring at you with a gaze cold enough to freeze a desert. He was now still cunning, and still haughty, and his eyes sure as hell held the same icy grey colour, but the alcohol-induced daze loosened him up. Made his laugh more genuine, his superior drawl warmer, his overall posture more inviting. She knew for a fact that he was not above intoxication, as she'd encountered him drunk many, many times before, and maybe, she thought now, looking at him from the opposite of the table, he enjoyed living that less restricted and closed off side of him.

"Are you stalling?" The boy in question cracked an all too familiar smirk, and she detected no slur in his words yet.

"Why would I be?"

He arched a suggestive eyebrow that made her insides twist. "Nerves, perhaps?"

"Oh, yeah. Because your chances are so much greater, aren't they?" She sing-songed.

There was a certain fire inside of her, a temper that couldn't be tamed. She was generally a nice and polite person, but Scorpius Malfoy never seemed to awaken such desires within her – she didn't feel the need to be kind to him, because he'd never return it and he wouldn't know how to appreciate it either. Yet she didn't mind to be around him, strange as that may sound, because in the rare moments of communication between the two, she could be Bitch Rose and it didn't necessarily have to carry consequences. It was a very peculiar thing, but she couldn't help but wonder if maybe... he knew her just a little bit more than all the others, just because he actually searched beneath the surface, beneath the _good_ in her, whatever his ulterior motives may be.

Though, she realised as this thought crossed her mind while glaring at the blond, he probably didn't care for her at all.

Which ticked her off.

_Slightly_.

"Very well then," he said, throwing her the little ball once again. "You may start, my lady."

_My lady. _

He'd never call her that if he were sober. He only ever used the term 'love', which was always meant so mockingly that it might as well be translated into 'the most hideous girl on earth'.

"Cheers," she replied dryly.

Of course, given her oh so brilliant mind, it didn't take her too long to figure out what he'd done to her. She missed by a long run, and she never missed by a long run. He'd Confunded her.

_How original. _

"Very mature," she muttered.

He leaned on the table with both his forearms and gave her a challenging look. "Done playing?"

After that question he threw the little ball straight in. Given his drunken state she was fairly sure he'd done that thanks to magic as well.

"Sod off," she whined needlessly, drinking with aversion. It burned – it _always_ burned – but she refused to let him see how it affected her. She wasn't used to strong liquor, but she couldn't let him know that, could she?

"Ready to give up yet, given the circumstances?"

She tried to think of the spell he'd used to direct his little balls, but failed. Still Confunded, she missed all the following turns just like he'd done before, and eight (!) cups later, she felt her cheeks heating up, the air thicken, and her surroundings turned turbid like an expressionistic painting.

She was relatively sure that _this_ had been his intention. Her natural balance had deserted her – she stood, swaying her weight from one leg to the other, with no solid ground as it seemed, and it came to her that, _Jeeeesus_... that had been way, _way_ too much Firewhiskey. She felt like she was having a bloody O.D. on the damned drink, and yes indeed, _that_ had been his intention.

He'd wanted to get her as drunk as he was.

The worst thing was that he'd actually _succeeded_.

"Am I drunk enough for you?" She narrowed her eyes at him as he sauntered towards her with a smug face.

"Depends on how drunk you'd like to be, love," he replied when he stood next to her.

She smelled his cologne. It was exquisite and fancy and to her great disturbance, she recognised it as something she'd always relate to him, regardless of the intensity of their bond.

"I'd preferred not at all..."

He chuckled, and said in her ear, "Afraid of the consequences?"

Catching up with his innuendo, she frowned. "Should I be?"

He was very nearby, she established suddenly. "You tell me," he said, but when she didn't respond, he continued, "I heard some things, by the way. How are you and Scamander doing these days?"

Now _that_ was just cruel.

"That's none of your business," she snapped, but couldn't quite step away from him. There was something strangely alluring about their propinquity. She'd put it on the alcohol, but then again, didn't she always get fidgety around him?

(And, for fuck's sake, why was she even thinking about _him_ after the miserable tosser had brought up Lysander?)

"But I'm interested, Rose..."

First name basis. That was practically a warning sign in itself.

The truth was that she didn't really wanted to talk about Lysander to anyone at all, for it so happened to be that she felt guilty. They'd been going out for four years, falling into this never-ending routine, always the same and never something exciting, like a permanent ride on a merry-go-round. Ashamed as she was about it, she couldn't deny that she anticipated something new, something less evident, less _spelled out_... She was bored. She'd broken up with Lysander because she was plain _bored_. She had come up with a plethora of excuses, but when it came down to it...

"Scorpius," she said, emphasising, "you can't always get what you want."

With a ghost of a smile, he looked at her. "Oh, but I intend to."

Was that...?

Scorpius Malfoy was new, less evident, and not spelled out at all.

She flinched as this traitorous thought entered her mind, causing her throat to run dry and her nerves to flare up. Damn the Firewhiskey once again - the liquid had not only mingled with her eyesight, balance and body temperature, but had shoved her rationality and senses out of the window as well.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He dismissed her question and instead posed one of his own. "Do you trust yourself, Rose?"

"That is..." she paused momentarily, "quite a loaded question, Malfoy."

He turned around for a second and gave her a new cup afterwards, which she took hesitantly. "Let me rephrase myself: do you trust me?"

"I don't know you," she said simply, eyeing the Firewhiskey as if to ask, _where will this land me?_

"No, I suppose you don't," he agreed just as simply.

She took in his aristocratic features, and observed, "You are beautiful." She'd never have said that otherwise. He gave her an amused glance, but then she went on, "One shouldn't trust beautiful people – ever."

"You don't trust yourself," he stated.

"That's a loaded question," she repeated.

His soft yet haunting laugh rang in her ears and she couldn't help but go along with it. She was young and pretty and intelligent and for the first time in years, her life wasn't unfolded in front of her... She was free – free to do as she pleased. The rapid memory of Lysander's hurt expression hit her for one second, but it didn't manage to last or make a true impact. It lingered slightly, but one other glance at Malfoy and it vanished.

"You intrigue me, Rose," the aforementioned boy drawled after a short silence. "You're not as perfect as everyone thinks you are, am I correct?"

It was both insufferable and striking that he could still talk this formally after all those cups of Firewhiskey. Must've inherited the quality by blood, she mused lightly.

"And _you'_re not as heartless as everyone assumes you to be, are you?"

He ignored her but something in his posture affirmed her presumption. "Want to go for fresh air?"

"And risk losing our prefects title?"

"Life is grander than titles and rankings."

"Hypocrite."

"Coward."

She shook her head. "If I go with you... It's only because I happen to love the Hogwarts' garden."

That was entirely untrue.

He said no more and merely took her hand. They walked out of the Ravenclaw common room with many eyes trailing them, undoubtedly forming new rumours to tell tomorrow morning at Breakfast... or at Lunch, seeing as most of them wouldn't make it... But Rose couldn't bring herself to care. That is, after all, one of the biggest perks of an intoxicated breeze – the fact that the world could escape you and you'd be too out of it to notice or bother to make things better. She had to admit – she liked this.

They managed to avoid any professors or Peeves by slyly sneaking alongside the walls of the castle, one hand firmly in the other. She watched his long, pale fingers encircling her own like they'd been there for a long, long time, while trying her hardest not to focus on the tingling this contact unlaced. The garden wasn't exactly outside, for it was still surrounded by the building, but it was a part of Hogwarts that wasn't covered. It was tradition for the Herbology teacher to maintain it, to make sure the flowers and plants were taken care of. Even with troubled vision, Rose admired the beauty around her as they stood next to the fountain in the middle of the small park.

"Do you come here often?" He asked her, gazing at her rather than their surroundings.

Self-conscious, she returned his stare. "Sometimes. At night."

He hadn't let go of her hand. He refrained from answering.

"Do you?" She tried to cover the silence, suddenly nervous.

"Sometimes. At night," he mimicked, swirling so they were only inches apart.

"Scorpius..."

For the second time tonight she honest to God had no idea what she was doing.

His face was painfully close – so close his breath (laced with alcohol, laced with mint) fanned the straight bridge of her nose. His body was glued to hers, and yet... this wasn't supposed to happen – this close proximity, this tangible nearness – but he was there, and she was there, and they were there together at a turning point which was really no longer a _turning point_. His fingers remained entwined with hers in that annoyingly fitting way and –

His mouth found hers, pressing and bittersweet, and she couldn't protest, simply couldn't, she was unable to break it off simply because she knew they'd passed the turning point. She lost herself in a feeling that unfamiliar and unintentional... was there a reason she shouldn't?... His tongue teased her lips, as if asking for permit, and only because she'd lost herself she obliged. He tasted the way he smelled, like mint, she noticed, mint with clear Firewhiskey. His hands trailed over her arms, her waist, her neck, her cheeks, her hair, her everything. Her breathing hitched slightly at his touch.

"Live a little," he whispered sensually in her ear, and when he said that she knew for sure this was a completely lost cause. She threw her arms around him with a sudden urge, a sudden _drive_ to be somewhere she'd never imagined herself to be (... although that was kind of a lie), and indulged herself in the kiss, fire and passion and electricity jolting through her veins. He responded immediately – same fire, same passion, same electricity – and she then saw she'd been wrong before.

He wanted her. That's why he always stared. He _wanted_ her.

She was out of reach, and she could only guess that was the reason. No one was as off limits as she was to him and he was to her – which, really, was a two way street.

Inspired by this thought, she started fumbling at his shirt, leaving his mouth to kiss her way down from his ear to his chin to the crook of his neck. She heard him groaning softly, which fuelled her desire to let him know that she was worthy, that she was special and unforgettable, that she was not just a simple Weasley, not just another redhead in tow. The memories of him competing against her in just about everything they did – classes, Quidditch – raced through her mind, and just for one night, she wanted to show him that she was not a _competition_.

Just one night.

One fucking night.

"Let's go to your dorm," she smiled suggestively, uncharacteristically, not wondering one fraction of a second if what she was doing was wrong or right and if she was going to regret her actions in the morning. The boy in front of her was way too beautiful and desirable and _guilty_ to pass up.

"Now," he smirked attractively. With his arm around her shoulder, he led her out the garden, down the stairs, paying no heed to the looks they received from the paintings. They stumbled on their way to the Dungeons, never losing contact in one way or another, and soon arrived to the coldest place in the castle.

She'd tell you how the Slytherin common room looks, or how his Prefects bedroom is decorated. She'd tell you how he'd charmed his bed to refrain his dorm mates from hearing them, but she was simply too caught up. Too distracted, too clouded by this figure guiding her inside with his body pressed so close to hers that she could practically feel every pore, every minor detail of what was him. He kissed her thoroughly and she kissed him profusely, and it was the moment when she took a good look at his face and noticed a hoisting at the corner of his lips, that it hit her. It hit her like a ton of bricks that _this_ was The Point Of No Going Back.

This was the point that passed all boundaries.

He apparently comprehended that as well, as the grip on her hands hardened and his stare pierced right through her. She signalled a heightening of all her senses as she gazed back in the depth of his metal eyes, his pupils dilated in lust, and the statement that eyes are the window of your soul popped up briefly. She'd always thought Scorpius was the exception to this rule, but staring at him that second, he wasn't holding up a front and she could see perfectly how much he wanted her.

"You're so beautiful," he muttered, pushing her up against the wall, "so fucking beautiful."

Her bodily functions seemed to fail her. All except for the hammering device under her ribcage. With a racing heart she watched him as he lifted his shirt and exposed his pale yet muscled chest. As soon as his mouth crashed back on hers, her hormones and the alcohol helped her to get rid of every ounce of self-control she had left.

Only one night.

That's what she told herself.

_Only one night. _

Maybe that was a lie as well.

* * *

So, rating up?

Please care to review; I'll love you forever (... YES I WILL)

Josephine


	3. Wrath

Olaa, dear readers.

I'm not going to up the rating, but while we're on the subject anyway, I was wondering about something. See, you're not allowed to read something when you're too young (which, personally, seems pretty stupid to me, given that if you're twelve and you're going to read an M-rated story, no monster is going to jump out of your screen to prevent you from doing so), but is it also forbidden to write stories with a rating too high for your own age?

Idk. Seems just as stupid to me though.

**Disclaimer:** check former chapters, stories, whatever.

* * *

_Teased by your blouse  
Spit out by your mouth  
I was loud by your lowered  
Seminary sold_

Bon Iver - 'Creature Fear'

* * *

**3. W R A T H**

He woke up.

And then immediately wished he hadn't.

See, sleep is peaceful resolution, even when there's absolutely nothing to resolve in the first place. Assuming that he wasn't being Crucio'd or Imperio'd or Avada'd or facing Voldemort himself after a turbulent and violent pursuit in his dreams, Scorpius found sleep rather nice and dandy. His Egyptian cotton sheets were very welcoming and warm, his pillow was just the right amount of fluffy, and God, that Silencing charm he'd used on his bed worked so well he didn't even hear Alexander Nott snoring or shagging Clearwater.

And _that_ was saying something.

Bloody exhibitionists.

He'd learned to appreciate his sleep because it was rare and it never came easily. He couldn't even tell you why, but he presumed it had something to do with the fact that whenever he closed his eyelids a set of vivid images rolled in front of them, as a film with a script and a twist and a plot and actors and actresses, and occasionally... no, not occasionally... most of the time... _all_ of the time, _she_ appeared in it, blinding him with that brilliant smile and teasing him with that hoarse, sensual and bossy voice. She was always distinctly real – her scent, her height, the light in her ocean eyes – but then again, maybe she was only as real as he imagined her to be, for in his fantasies she actually _liked_ him.

Apparently in the real world she didn't like him at all.

He woke up, immediately wishing he hadn't, with a banging headache – the familiarity of it as painful as the actual throbbing – and a coldness surrounding him that he hadn't encountered before.

Because she wasn't there.

She had been, but she wasn't anymore.

Memories of last night came crashing and made his mouth run paper-dry. He remembered chatting her up for fun (because he was drunk) and her being far more easy than he'd ever thought she would be (because she was drunk as well). She'd been so willing, so compliant... so ready to melt into him... and even though there were far more black holes than he'd prefer, the whole affair had been a complete turn-on, which he wouldn't ever mind repeating. In fact, as his mind started replaying the movie of what was last night, he simply _had_ to get up to take a cold shower.

With vast aversion, he pushed the covers off him and crawled out of his bed, trying not to stumble. Merely clad in a pair of plaid boxers, the dungeon's typically low temperature hit him worse than before. Throwing on the white undershirt that happened to be lying next to his bed, he took a good look around the room – which, fortunately, was already empty (_what time was it anyway?_). Rubbing his temples in a sad attempt to lighten the internal misery, he made his way towards the bathroom. Luckily that one was unoccupied as well, he thought, because he could use some serious, _serious_ refreshing.

He felt like shit.

One glance into the mirror and he realised he _looked_ like it too.

"Get a grip," he commanded his uncharacteristically horrifying reflection. "Don't be such a pansy. She slept with you because you got her wasted and that's all there is to it. You don't even want her. You had her and you're through. She had every right to run off because you've done the same thing to other girls and she doesn't care about you. Man up, you tosser. You can't honestly give a fuck, can you?"

Yet the ashen face and bloodshot eyes that stared back at him told him the answer to that question wasn't a favourable one.

He'd had a bite from the forbidden fruit and now he wanted more. He was the junkie that had had his first fix, the desert that had felt its first drop of water, the dark that had seen its first ray of sunshine, the silence that had heard its first melody, the antipathy that had discovered beauty...

Or maybe not that drastic – but still.

Her observing gaze flashed before him.

_One shouldn't trust beautiful people – ever. _

There had been so much truth in that statement it wasn't even funny, he thought, and groaned and sighed at the idea of facing her again. He needed a plan. A Real Good Plan. He'd make her _beg_ him to sleep with her again. He wasn't a scheming little Slytherin bastard for nothing – he'd find a way that even she, colossal brainpower in form of a hot Ravenclaw bitch, would never foresee. She'd _ran away_, after all!

"Rose Weasley," he laughed evilly at himself, "You have _no_ idea what you signed up for."

And then he stopped abruptly, because, well – he _did_ kind of look like an idiot, talking to a mirror that he himself had charmed to shut the hell up because it had once told him he was too pale and looked like a girl.

He'd been eleven.

He'd never gotten over that.

* * *

"Ooooh, the mighty man returns," were Stephano's first words as Scorpius showed up for lunch. "So tell me, big boy," he winked as Scorpius shot him a death glare, "what about those rumours?"

Several heads at the Slytherin table subtly turned their way. Scorpius took a seat next to his best mate, very well aware of the fact that Rose Weasley was sitting only one table away from him, her Always So Sunny Smile strangely absent. She clearly refused to give him any time of the day, _if_ she had even noticed him coming in with her eyes cast downward like that. Surrounding her were Louis Weasley (the only non-redheaded Weasley in school and, excruciatingly enough, the sod who managed to screw even more virgins than he, Scorpius Malfoy, The Man Himself), Albus Potter (why was he there anyway, the stupid _Gryffindolt_?) and her usual posse of pretty girls (half of whom he'd shagged at one point, he thought, cringing).

"Which rumour exactly?" He asked vaguely, never once looking away from her.

"I heard you and Rose went out for a little... _alone time_," Stephano said insinuatingly.

It was almost funny how the entire table pretended to be utterly engrossed in their food whereas they could just as well cup their ear with their hand – _that's_ how obvious they were.

"Well, that's..."

_Not true_, he wanted to say, but then – why the fuck didn't she look at him? Did she believe she was too good for him? Superior to his oh so low Slytherin antics? Too much of a princess? Was he too much of a loner, too much of an asshole, too much of a selfish cad for little miss perfect?

She'd _slept_ with him, for Christ's sake!

"...quite precise."

If she could fuck him over, he could do the same.

Revenge rose in front of him, deliciously ripe for plucking.

He tore his stare away from her (damn her for being so bloody fit) and found an entire Slytherin student body gaping at him like fish, unashamed and pathetic as they were. He pretended to be bored by pricking his fork into a piece of meat and dangling it in the air (hoping it would get across the following message: _even a dead cow interest me more than you lowly plebeians do_), and waited a good, full three minutes for extra measure.

"So what _happened_?"

Of course the most impatient one _had_ to be Square-faced Clearwater.

"Well, you know..." he drawled, full effect hitting in. "She was all over me. I couldn't refuse her, now could I?"

Stephano gave the blond a slight smirk, mixed with a disbelieving snort, but other than that, the rest of the table ate it all up. Mina Carrow, a fifth year he didn't know too well, leaned forward and breathed, "You reckon she dumped Scamander for you?"

"I wouldn't dismiss the possibility," he said, feigning neutrality.

God. He'd be _such_ a magnificent Minister of Magic. Just imagine his talent for press conferences.

"Good thing she's actually had a real conversation with you before last night," Stephano muttered sarcastically, copying Scorpius' trademark disinterest. The latter felt rather inclined to murder his so-called partner in crime in a preferably gruesome way, but then thought of the inglorious life that was Azkaban and the bloodstains on his very expensive shirt and decided he'd insult his friend later – verbal violence _was_ his forte after all.

"_I_ wouldn't need a real conversation for that," Carrow implied, nearly prompting Scorpius' meal to come upwards again. "And she was probably tired of her virginity anyway."

Stephano chuckled. "As opposed to you then?"

Scorpius felt the urge to high-five the ebony-haired wizard, but then again, he'd just pegged him as a Non-Friend, and _please_, high-fives were _far_ beneath his level.

"I'm not a virgin, thank you very much," protested the visibly offended witch, loud enough for the entire Great Hall to hear. However, no one thought she was even remotely good-looking enough to spare any lingering thoughts on that statement, Scorpius noted with satisfaction.

"_Whatever_," Clearwater butted in, agitated at the shift of attention, "no one cares about you anyway."

Scorpius silently thanked his heritage for ending up in this oh so very clearly philanthropic house.

"_Anyway_, we were talking about Scorpius' new conquest. She slept with you then?" The girl continued.

Scorpius rolled his eyes and snapped, "No, we went to braid each other's hair."

Of course this served as all the confirmation the dimwits needed.

Scorpius Malfoy was famous for his wit, his conniving attitude and his sarcasm. He'd played his cards well, he had to admit, given that if he'd gone around blabbering about his one night stand with Weasley, his credibility would've gone straight to the dogs. He didn't go around blabbering. He just didn't. The blond liked to believe he was elusive and enigmatic, impossible to read and a case of Enter At Your Own Risk. He manipulated his way through the Hogwarts life and yes, he'd done so once again by letting the others assume, helped by a crude affirmative demeanour, which was so like him no one (... Stephano counted as no one) even thought of doubting his story. He wasn't even telling a lie, _technically_ speaking. He was merely... embellishing the truth. Of course she hadn't been _all over him_. Of course she hadn't dumped Scamander for _him_. But, honestly, was there anyone in this entire castle who even _half_-cared, aside from Rose Weasley herself?

"Good work, Malfoy," William Montague, a bulky classmate of his, drew up an applause. "Someone finally nailed the Weasley!"

_How sophisticated_, thought Scorpius. "Cheers, Montague, but I still think you overestimate the task."

He never thought he'd see the day, but he valued her downgrade more than his upgrade.

Only then he happened to catch her... frightfully... icy eye. She was staring at him with lips barely visible, pursed in a thin line, one eyebrow carefully arched as if to tell him, _even you wouldn't sink this low_, and he realised, with a startling confusion, that her gaze reduced him to a little school boy reprimanded by the headmistress, and that, fuck it, _she_'d probably denied all the rumours because she wasn't half as proud of sleeping with him as he was for sleeping with her. It was a blow to his pride, but he outwardly showed no signs of his inner turmoil and returned her stare with boredom and even a small smirk. He saw her standing up, her hand trembling with hardly restrained anger, and whispering something in the other Weasley's ear. The sandy-haired boy looked up from his plate, straight to Scorpius, with a disturbed expression slowly transforming into a glare. The latter did, naturally, nothing for him, but he couldn't help but feel a little uneasy at Rose's obvious displeasure.

"Stephano," he cleared his throat, "I'm going back to the common room."

Stephano grinned knowingly and said, "Good luck, mate."

He'd need it.

She'd probably kill him before he could even reach the Dungeons...

* * *

The Wrath of the Weasley didn't happen as soon as he thought it would. He'd been able to spend his entire Sunday quietly (apart from the occasional inquisition about his rendezvous with Rose), relaxing in the all too comfortable armchair in front of the fireplace, almost focusing on the book he so desperately tried to read. The effort had been lost, though, for certain memories had plagued his mind far more than he'd cared to admit. He supposed this had to be his karma, but little did he know, his real karma had yet to arrive.

It happened on Monday, third period, after a dreadful class of Charms.

He was utterly oblivious. He walked out of the class alone - none of his friends took it anymore, and he'd made a point of disliking people that didn't live up to his standards, which basically came down to _everyone else_ – with his fancy robes swishing behind him and his nose up the air. When he suddenly felt a pull at his arm and found himself no longer in the corridor but in a dusty, deserted classroom, he was caught off guard completely. When he saw the wand that was pointed directly at his aristocratic nose, too close for his liking, comprehension dawned upon him.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he swore as he eyed the owner of the object in concealed bewilderment. "Do you have to be so _dramatic_?"

Contempt spoke from Rose Weasley's pretty, freckled face. Her other hand encircled her hip as if to make a stand, defiance radiating from every pore of her being. "Do you have to be such a _prick_?"

"If this is an attempt to discuss Saturday night's matters, then I suggest we revert back to mature ways of making conversation," said the prick in question, folding his arms. He refused to be intimidated by her, failing only a _little_ because his rationality told him she could be, in fact, quite dangerous.

"Oh, like you discussed them so _maturely_ with your housemates yesterday?" She spit out, wand never wavering.

He couldn't deny she had a bit of a point there. "What are you talking about?"

"I was all over you? I dumped Lysander for you?" She shook her head indignantly. "Taking my virginity was an overestimated task? I wasn't even a _virgin_, Malfoy!"

So she'd actually let that Scamander freak _touch_ her?

He shuddered in revulsion when that thought sank in, but then realised his odds weren't exactly looking up at the moment and that he clearly had more urgent matters to worry about. The girl in front of him looked as murderous as she looked delectable, and obviously he'd be the receiving end of her rage.

_But wasn't this what he had wanted when he came up with that nonsense?_

"You weren't even within hearing range," he frowned at last.

"I didn't need to be, you moron," she spat, "there were at least ten people eager to tell me this morning. Do you _want_ to end up in Witch Weekly?"

It was stronger than his own will when he replied, "Oh, but I have already been in it, actually."

She looked positively disgusted. It occurred to him that this was not the reaction he'd wanted to unlace within her, but good grief, what was he to do?

"Why did you do it?"

"Appear in the magazine?"

The withering look she threw him spoke volumes.

"Take your pseudo virginity?"

The wand now touching his nose spoke so loud it nearly made his eardrums pop.

"Why did I tell people, then?"

She nodded curtly, but nothing in her posture changed.

"I honestly wasn't aware it was a secret," he explained innocently, but even he didn't manage to make the lie sound somewhat plausible. _Of course_ it had been a secret – everyone with even the slightest common sense could see that. She'd just broken up with her boyfriend, for crying out loud!

"Then why did you have to be so crude about it?" She asked – and did he detect a twinge of disappointment in her voice?

"I wasn't..." he trailed off. Denial wouldn't get him anywhere. "Could you _please_ drop your wand?"

"_If_ you tell me why you're being such an idiot and if you promise me to shut the fuck up about Saturday from now on," said Rose, her tone leaving no space for negotiation. He _was_ an idiot, and he did exist on another's misery, but his intelligence wisely told him to back off, for remaining stubborn on this matter would only land him in his _own_ misery.

"Alright, deal."

He extended his hand, but she ignored it ostentatiously while lowering her wand. "Tell me."

"Well," he paused and wondered if she'd be happy with the answer. "_You_ ran off."

Silence befell the both of them.

His brains didn't let him ponder over his statement, however, as he was currently too distracted by the curve of her upper lip and the way her mouth slowly seemed to form a pout, reminding him of things he oughtn't be reminded of, given that the circumstances weren't exactly in his favour.

"I... ran off?" She repeated eventually, looking a tad disbelieving.

"Well, yes! First you sleep with me and then you just _leave_!"

As soon as the words flew out he realised the outright stupidity of them. He sounded like a whining baby – or _worse_, a fifteen-year-old teenage _Hufflepuff_ witch. His eyes widened in complete horror when he thought of the implications of what he had just said, and nearly snatched her wand away from her so he could hex _himself_.

He didn't care that she had left! How _could_ he? How could he care about that unless he cared for _her_?

"But isn't that what you would've done had the roles been reversed?" She demanded, obviously still waiting for him to burst into laughter and tell her she was a twat for even contemplating the possibility that he would mind her absence. "I heard the stories! You're no better!"

He honestly didn't know what to say to that. He raked his brain, but only came up with the following question, "Why did you sleep with me anyway?"

She apparently wasn't very inspired either. "If you don't have to answer, neither do I."

A scowl arose on his face, as he felt genuinely irritated at her lack of response – he really wanted to hear why she'd done it if she deemed him so unworthy (God knows why) she couldn't even bother to say goodbye in the morning. Enervation aside, he couldn't help but notice how she'd slowly and probably unwittingly come closer to him, without her wand as a broken bridge between them, and caught a whiff of the apple perfume that had lingered on his pillow. As on an instinct, he leaned forward slightly, desiring nothing more than to kiss her again, but settled for saying in her ear, "What if we both... give in?"

The double meaning of his words didn't pass her by but didn't unnerve her either. She remained calm and still and unaffected as his breath fanned her neck. "Impaired judgement."

"You slept with me because of _impaired judgement_?"

If she'd been any other girl, maybe a less intoxicating one, he'd walk away from her immediately. She had no right to insult him like that – but God, it felt _so_ good to be this close again. She _almost _felt like a concrete embodiment of Liquid Luck to him. He diplomatically ogled her curves – props to whoever designed the girls' school uniform – but stopped when she impatiently snapped her fingers in front of him.

"Not going to happen, Casanova," she hissed, promptly turning away. "And if _you_ have any judgement at _all_, you never breathe a word about Saturday night again, got it?"

"Ooh, _feisty_," he cracked a supercilious smirk, but didn't do anything to stop her as the redhead exited the room with a huff. He merely kept his eyes on the place where she'd walked out and thought that he'd never been more ready for a challenge in his whole life.

Ever.

* * *

So that was that. Conclusion: Rose is feisty and Scorpius is a prick.

I'll love you for longer than forever if you review, but you kind of already knew that. Conclusion: review!

Please refrain from favouriting w/o reviewing, btw. It is extremely annoying.

Hugs and kisses (... no I did not mean that)  
Josephine


	4. Greed

Alright, so this took long enough to write.

MAJOR CHEERS TO CONSUELO (sarahbrasil) B/C A) SHE HELPED ME WITH THE STORY'S MAIN IDEA AND B) SHE'S AWESOME.

That said.

**Disclaimer**: no copyright infringement intended. All belongs to J.K. Rowling.

* * *

_I'm seeing you sinking  
I'm standing alone  
You're weighing the gold  
I'm watching you sinking  
Fools gold_

Stone Roses – 'Fools gold'

* * *

**  
4. G R E E D **

It was late, the common room had been packed as usual, and everyone had made it their duty to interrogate her about the Malfoy business. It was absolutely no wonder Rose Weasley found herself attempting to study in library instead of inside her own house at nine o'clock in the evening. If only she hadn't forgotten to bring that Herbology essay to work on (its deadline was in two days, after all), she could've done something useful instead of simply _gazing_ at her Charms textbook like a bloody illiterate person. The issue was that she found herself simply unable to _focus_.

She was just a little too busy marvelling at her own idiocy.

Apparently intelligence didn't necessarily equal common sense.

Because – really, for what good, _sensible_ reason had she slept with Scorpius Malfoy?

There were exactly two options and none of them were exceptionally sensible. The first explanation she'd come up with had been one logically evolving from of her then-current state – hung over enough to possibly kill herself (until she'd managed to snag Louis' excellent hang over potion anyway). She had thus initially blamed the... lapse of judgement... on the Firewhiskey and vowed not to indulge herself into that certain behaviour ever again (knowing very well promises as those were usually in vain). When Malfoy had managed to turn her denial about their involvement invalid, this was also what she told the people who asked her about it.

_He took advantage of me. He got me drunk and used me and I, innocence personified, was unwittingly lured into his trap._

She of course couldn't imply that he'd raped her (because, well, he clearly hadn't), but after that cowardly stunt he'd pulled on her, the least she could do was leading people to believe she was repelled by him.

Which, sadly, she wasn't.

That led her to the second explanation – one she wasn't nearly as fond of. What if it wasn't just the liquor? She had an inkling suspicion it had been a little more than that. The whole occurrence couldn't exclusively be written off to something as simple as _booze_. Aside from the obvious (her reputation), something rather indefinable had changed as well. That something indefinable inside her had been twisted and altered and modified and _maybe_ even improved, because whenever the memory of his lips on hers and his hands on wherever they weren't supposed to be, a warm feeling crept up her spine and she unwillingly flushed, and it made her feel sort of good.

But then – she thought now, a few hours after she'd practically ambushed Scorpius – was that a _change_, really? Hadn't she been _always_ secretly attracted to him, as corny and stupid and above all, _wrong_ that may sound? She couldn't... like... _fancy_ him or anything, could she?

No, she decided, staring at the book in front of her. He was the world's biggest prick and the list of his negative character traits, not to mention his _family name_, easily outweighed the redeeming ones. If one and one equalled two, Scorpius and Rose equalled Error.

It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. Lysander and her? _They_ made sense. Perfect sense, even. More-than-perfect, ideal, happy and shiny sense. Scorpius and her? Not so much. She _needed_ logic. She thrived on it. She breathed it. It reigned over her world – it was her religion, her philosophy. Logic was the king to her queen – and, _damn it_, maybe that was something she and Scorpius actually had in common, because, now she thought about it, he always seemed painfully rational as well.

Although, seriously, she still _loathed_ him. Especially after this morning.

"Thought I'd find you here."

Her heart skipped a beat and she almost fell out of her chair.

"Oh for the love of – " she started off, clutching her chest with one hand. Then she saw who so cleverly snuck up on her and her face fell. "Eh, hi."

There was the sandy-haired wizard she'd come to know so well – fumbling at his Ravenclaw tie (typical quirk of his), eyes clear and blue and big and honest, looking at her with a rather disgruntled glint in them. She swallowed slightly as the situation presented itself, cursing inwardly because this was exactly what she'd been avoiding for the past few days – Confrontation Time ringing at her door.

"Sorry," Lysander muttered, clearing his throat, "It's just that I haven't had the chance to talk to you since..."

It bothered her that he seemed awkward and wouldn't utter the words out loud, but not nearly enough to screw him over and say them herself. She wasn't _mean_ – at least not to anyone who didn't deserve it. And boy, did Lysander Scamander ever not deserve it.

"Yeah, I know," she offered a small smile, unease starting to bottle up already.

He sat down next to her in a swift movement and sighed, "You've been evading me."

"I did not," she replied on automatic response.

Of course she had. What could she tell him? Surely he'd heard the rumours! Was there a living or even a _non_-living soul in this whole wide castle who _hadn't_?

"So is it true?"

Her head snapped up. His question thickened the air while she thought she might choke on guilt any minute. The firm expression on his face screamed at her not to lie and yet his sagged shoulders told her she should – because he loved her, he'd said that, time and time and time again, like a broken record, when she broke up with him last Friday, and he wouldn't be able to handle it if she'd really slept with Malfoy. She knew he'd be messed up worse than he already was... and the fact that _she'_d caused this kind of raw distress?

It made her feel like shit.

It made her feel like the worst person on the entire planet... and that spot was reserved for the likes of, well, Voldemort, Peter Pettigrew, Bellatrix Black,... Scorpius Malfoy perhaps... But not her. Certainly not her.

"I'll take your silence for an apparent answer," he mumbled, after she'd failed to answer, "I know you. I can read you like a book."

She wanted to tell him that if he'd known her so well, he would've made sure not to bore her, but she bit her tongue. "I don't know what to say."

Then something peculiar happened. His nervous yet calm demeanour snapped and the Boy Incapable Of Anger exploded with his cheeks flushed in sudden fury – something she'd never ever experienced with him. She'd seen him annoyed, she'd seen him unhappy, but she'd never actually seen him throw a punch, shout or hex someone.

"Well, _damn_ you, Rose!" He bellowed. "How could you do that to me?"

This is crazy, she thought. "I don't _know_!" And then, against her better judgement, "I didn't cheat on you – we were broken up!"

She primly closed her book while he stood up from his chair and roughly pushed it away. "I can't believe you! Why _Malfoy_ of all people? Didn't you hate him?"

_I never hated him_, she thought.

"I don't know!" She repeated. "I'm _sorry_!"

"You always know everything and now you _don't_?" He yelled, still with the increased volume.

"No, I don't!"

"Well, start thinking of something!"

She stared at him. Then, in a little voice at last, "I wanted to enjoy my freedom."

Then it was over as suddenly as it started.

His face slowly reverted back to its natural, slightly tanned colour as he returned her stare. His breathing was evened again when he spoke up, "Thanks. At least I have something to work with now."

It had a bitter edge to it, but she supposed it was better than the outrage from two seconds ago. "I'm sorry. I mean it."

"I know you do," he sighed, taking back his seat. "You wouldn't be Rose Weasley if you weren't."

It was only for his sake that she nodded, "That's right."

"I still love you, you know," he stated, holding her eye. "Even after..."

Once again he couldn't say and once again that bothered her. It didn't contain her from feeling a tinge of regret however, as the wizard next to her had been her boyfriend for more than two years for a reason. She knew very well that if only she waited long enough, she'd start to miss him and his oh so light-hearted, tranquil antics.

Too bad she was never one for patience.

"Let's not... dive into that right now, okay?" she tried evasively.

He didn't respond but the disappointment was blatantly obvious. She went for another angle, "Take a book and we'll just... read. Like we did before."

At the mention of 'before' he finally somewhat-smiled, to her great relief.

And thus, they read.

Like before.

* * *

"What are you doing here?"

She'd come back from the library to the Ravenclaw common room with Lysander by her side but only had to return after she'd noticed her essay wasn't there either. To her great frustration it hadn't been lying around in the library, and to her even greater frustration, when she came back for the second time Malfoy was waiting for her at the beginning of the tightly winding spiral staircase that led to her house, leaning against the wall and blocking the passage with such typical arrogance and grace it made her want to vomit her brains out.

Or not her brains, but still.

"I have a preposition for you."

Everything that came out of his mouth was twisted, she realised – syllables in a tangled web of honeysweet deception and cold straightforward honesty.

"I don't want to hear it," she hissed.

She tried to pass him by, but with the reflexes of a Seeker his arm shot out to cut off the entrance completely. Last time she'd caught him off guard, _this_ time he was the one ahead – two steps, to be precise. Her hip brushed against his for a nanosecond, but she decided to spare the fact that she'd _noticed_ no thought.

"Surely you don't," came his sarcastic voice, "being as informed as you are."

She glared at him stonily. "Let me rephrase myself. I don't _care_ about hearing it."

It didn't faze him. At all. "How would you like to be convinced?" Then, when she wanted to grab her wand to blast the hell out of him, he whispered, "_Accio_ wand."

She attempted a non-verbal spell, but it seemed that he knew how to block those as well.

"Fuck _you_," she spat, half in bafflement and half out of spite.

"Gladly," he smirked back, cocking a blond eyebrow.

Tapping her foot, she encircled his wrist with her fingers and tried to pull his hand off the wall. He merely watched in amusement as he was obviously stronger than her, making her scowl in enervation. "Let. Me. Through!"

"Perhaps," he drawled, finally stepping aside, "_this_ will interest you more."

She was already four steps up before she, in the corner of her eye, saw what the miserable excuse for a human being was holding.

"My _essay_!" she gasped, reaching for it only to have her access denied.

"Not so easy there, Rose..."

She whirled towards him. "What do you _want_?"

"One night with you, that's all," he said, with the essay behind his back. The implications of his proposal were crystal as daylight, rooting her to the spot. The memory of the ecstasy she'd felt... because of _him_... shuddered through her and she cast her gaze downwards for one moment, not willing to let herself get lost again.

"Never," she shook her head, determinate. "I've got another day. I can rewrite it, _easily_."

Without a last glance she turned and walked up the stairs. She was around the first corner when she realised he still had her wand, and on top of that he said loudly, "I'm not sold out yet, Rose!"

Thinking of her wand she descended again.

"An essay didn't do the trick?" Malfoy's smirk expanded by a mile. "What about this?"

He took a book out of leather bag and waved it in the air. She recognised the title immediately, but the cover was a tad different than the one of the same book she owned. A special edition, she thought, looking at the sleek, hard front, golden words engraved and moving.

"Magical Objects And Its Origins," she cited, almost breathlessly, "Where did you find that edition?"

It was her bloody favourite book!

"Australia, sixty-five galleons," he said simply. "Worth every Sickle. It's got _extra_ pages with _extra_ secretive information... And if you want, it's _all_ yours..."

Her personal library would _sing_ to her if she brought this home. Her mother would adore her, Louis would lick her heels, and she herself would be forever euphoric to possess this piece of exclusive non-fiction.

But to what price? Her _dignity_? She'd have to sell her soul to the _devil_!

_Yet she'd already done that, hadn't she?_

"You can't _buy_ me like that, Malfoy," she muttered, feeling like child who didn't receive any Christmas presents. "I'm not a whore."

He took a step closer to her. "Of course you aren't."

To his credit he sounded fairly serious. On the other hand, the proximity he'd created suggested a different thing – he thought he could just _waltz_ into her every day happenings and have an actual place in it by blackmailing her into sex. If _that_ wasn't fucked up then she didn't know what the hell it was.

"I'm not done," he halted her third attempt to move up. "And I promise you this is _gold_."

Her curiosity was peaked against her own will – because, really, the essay and book had been extraordinarily alluring enticements, so if he had something better in store...

"Although," he continued as she looked at him from over her shoulder, "you have to swear secrecy once I've shown you. No matter how much I... _like_ you, I'll still have to hex in you to death when you're asleep."

The threat didn't sound too empty, she observed. If anything, Rose Weasley was very much capable of holding a secret. In fact, she loved them. "Spill it."

"Not in _public_, you idiot," he said as if talking to a two-year-old. She was extremely exasperated at that, but gave in and pointed her finger to the left.

"There's a cupboard over there," she said, wondering if the uncertainty was showing on her face. She knew the hidden meaning behind the word 'cupboard' in this school, but she brushed it off bravely and she walked towards it. She would never duck into a cupboard with him for _those_ purposes, now would she?

Not even _unconsciously_.

"Trust me," he tittered from behind her, "I _know_."

She rolled her eyes as she opened the door and crawled in. She sat with her arms around her bent legs, hearing the other boy murmuring a quiet 'Lumos' after creeping in as well. He closed the cupboard's door after moving into the same position as her, her feet between his due to a lack of space. His smell mingled with the original dull one and overwhelmed her in the same way it had when she'd been drunk out of her mind, and she tried not to breathe for two seconds, for she hoped that would cause the tingling in her stomach to pass. He looked at her from above the his alit wand, a misleading warmth glowing in his otherwise metal-grey eyes. She marvelled at his aesthetic beauty for a fleeting moment and then pinched herself to snap out of it.

"You charmed the lock, right?" she asked.

She was a Ravenclaw, after all. She wasn't _reckless_ – at least not when she was sober.

"Oh _no_, I fancy a detention or five with Filch, don't you?" said Malfoy mockingly.

"You having five detentions with Filch?" she snapped back. "Yeah, I do fancy that."

This time he was the one to roll his eyes. "Whatever. Still interested in my little gadget or do you prefer proceeding to... the more physical matters immediately and skip the foreplay altogether?"

"Just..." she groaned in irritation, "get on with it. The gadget, I mean."

To her surprise he actually did. Reaching into his bag once again, he pulled out a box in a rectangle form that was obviously very expensive. He used her wand to mutter a few spells (some sort of password, she guessed) and the box clicked open with a subtle sound. She leaned forward slightly as her curiosity once again got the best of her – it bubbled up in her guts and soon became unbearable. She didn't want to come off too eager, but as she saw a rather esurient expression marring the wizard's pretty features, she whispered excitedly, "Come _on_, Malfoy. What's in it?"

Then he carefully held up the object in the box.

She gasped loudly.

She inhaled and exhaled and her heart felt like it had invented a whole new rhythm.

"That has to be fake."

He shook his head.

Glittering in the light of the flame from the wand, beautifully enhanced by sapphire, was a necklace that ended in a small locket. It dangled from his hands and if it was real, Rose was sure it had no business being there – this object wasn't meant for Scorpius Malfoy. It wasn't meant for any Malfoy _at all_.

"How did you get that?"

"It's been in my family for decades," he explained, "it went down from Malfoy wife to Malfoy wife... It's currently my grandmother's, until my grandfather dies. Then it's my mother's."

_Could it be...?_

"Well, why would it be in _your_ family?"

"Rose," he said tightly, not very taken in by her obvious dislike for his family, "we all know the Wizarding world consists of a bunch of morons. There are very few who'd realise the worth of what is currently in my hand. I assume one of my ancestors bought it somewhere – in a story, on a market. I don't know."

"So how do you know it's _real_?"

He offered the object to her. "I just do. You'll know what I mean once you've held it."

She took it and felt a soft rush running through her veins. She observed its details with a growing hunger for its power – a hunger mirrored in Malfoy's gaze.

"I can't believe it," she managed to bring out eventually. "This is... I mean, it's... _Rowena's Locket_. Malfoy, that's – "

"I know," he agreed. "It's insane. I've seen you reading that book quite often and rightfully deducted you'd know about this."

She nodded, barely visible. "So what's the bargain?"

She didn't even look at him – she was too transfixed on the ancient magic in front of her.

"You know what it can do, right?" he asked, to be sure. When she nodded again, he went on, "You know the way to get it?"

"Of course," she said quietly.

The jolt of excitement was consuming. It swiftly crossed her mind that it was once again Scorpius Malfoy who'd indirectly induced this feeling, making her mouth run dry.

"The one night I'll have with you," he said, "is the one night you'll have with _this_. I'll give you your essay and the book too, if you like."

He sounded... almost nice.

But then it hit her what this meant. She couldn't refuse. She _couldn't_ – this was worth it. The exhilaration that the object brought to her paired with the thought of... touching him again, would've made her knees buckle if she'd been standing straight. Luckily she wasn't and therefore, she maintained her posture.

"Tomorrow night."

He opened the door without another word, checked if the coast was clear, climbed out of the cupboard and even went as far as extending his hand to help her up. She was almost dizzy with the amount of tension inside, but grabbed his hand and rose herself in front of him. He was so nearby he looked down upon her hair and she faced his chin. Raising her head, they locked eyes and Scorpius calmly but strongly stated, "Tomorrow night."

Without turning around he sauntered away from her.

"Don't leave me hanging, Malfoy. You're asking a lot from me," she pleaded while he was still within earshot.

"I won't," he came to a standstill. "And, if you don't mind me asking, what exactly do you think I expect from you?"

_What...?_

"Oh, you _know_, Malfoy!"

"I never directly said I wanted to _shag_ you, Rose," he snickered. "I already have, after all."

Strangely enough, she felt a blow in her stomach. "Then what...?"

"It was your _company_ and _help_ I requested."

And by that he _did_ turn around.

She stared after him.

She was dazed like she'd just read a book of a thousand pages she couldn't understand.

* * *

So hmm, what does the locket do, you reckon?

Please review, dear readers.

Until next time  
Josephine


	5. Pride

**Disclaimer**_:_ don't own.

* * *

_Steps into your room, eats into your soul  
Over your senses you have no control  
Ain't nothing too discreet  
About the disease of conceit_

Bob Dylan – 'Disease of conceit'

* * *

**5. P R I D E**

"So how's it going in the land of our very own Romeo and Juliet?"

Stephano looked at him with such a knowing eye it made Scorpius want to stab it out and prevent it from dissecting him like that ever again. The meal for today – mashed potatoes and something else, _whatever_ – was served in front of them, and Scorpius made sure to focus on his food rather than Stephano's enervating best mate privileges, for it would be absolutely horrifying if the lad had even the slightest idea of what played around in his head these days.

"Fuck off."

"Ooh, touchy, aren't we?" Stephano took a sip from his water and then went on, "Seriously though, has she hexed you yet?"

Checking if there wasn't an (unfortunate) soul eavesdropping, Scorpius muttered impassively, "It came close. She loves me though. You'll see. She'll be waiting for me to propose at the end of the month."

"That's cold, man," Stephano commented, not failing to pick up the tinge of sarcasm in the other boy's voice. "She's that angry?"

"Not really," he replied vaguely, thinking of yesterday's events. She'd been far from angry – a hint closer to ecstasy, actually, judging from the way she'd reacted to his... surprise gift... "I made it up to her."

"Pervert."

Scorpius remained distracted. "How one-tracked your mind must be."

"I learned from the best," said Stephano suavely.

"I wonder," the blond responded placidly, scanning the room for a certain redheaded firecracker, "why I even bother hanging out with you."

"Because," Stephano said matter-of-factly, "no one else would put up with you that long. People actually get tired of enigmas, I'll have you know."

"But you... don't."

And Rose wouldn't either. He knew that. Every fibre of his (_impossibly great_) intellect told him she wouldn't. Put a riddle or mystery in front of her and Rose turned into a starry-eyed freak, determined to lay out the problem, outline and analyse it, peeling off layer by layer until finally she got to the core and solved it. It was a strange thing to say, really, given that if she was A, he was Z, if she was white, he was black, if she was sweet, he was sour... but, sometimes he recognised things in her that he only recognised because they reminded him of himself. Popular belief would state the two of them couldn't be further apart in mindset, but as time rolled on Scorpius found himself begging to differ.

Interrupting his train of thought, Stephano spoke up. "You're not an enigma to me."

Well, obviously. They'd seen each other _naked_.

(In a tub, as four-year-olds. When the world had consisted solely of Quidditch, candy bars and whining to get everything he wanted.)

"Whatev – "

Then he spotted _her_ and trailed off.

Brilliant and beautiful and smiling and practically yelling at him to ravish her with pretty words and kisses and Jesus fucking _Christ_, why was he even thinking all of this whipped crap? He could deal with clichéd teenage hormones and a few degrading thoughts about her body and all that – but _this_?

"See?" Stephano droned on, coming from afar once again. "There you go again, mate. Shutting yourself off. No wonder she wouldn't marry you."

"Fuck off," Scorpius mumbled, connecting the beginning of the conversation to the end, bringing on the perfect circle that made it possible for him to stand up and leave. "I have to go."

"You haven't touched your food," Stephano pointed out.

Scorpius ignored him. He had caught Rose's eye and nodded at her, a silent communication between them that no one else of the entire student body could begin to comprehend. Tonight they were in for something greater, after all, something that surpassed the law of nature and physics.

Something so great is was beyond any of their grasps...

Unless for maybe theirs.

* * *

"What I need from you," he drawled as a welcoming, "is your brain. Nothing less and nothing more."

He held the door open courteously for her as she walked through (he was nothing if not polite – manners were high up there in Malfoy requirements, after all). She showed no signs of appreciating the gesture and merely rewarded him with an ambiguous glance. His eyes trailed after her as she pulled out a random chair on the left side of the deserted class room – her appearance no different from what he'd seen in class earlier, if it wasn't for the unmistakable excitement that hung around her she probably (...desperately) tried to hide from him. Her game plan wasn't working on him in the least, because, well, he had been observing her for a rather long time (in a subtle way, though, he admonished in his head, a subtle very-un-stalkerish-way – let that be screamingly clear) and he knew she wouldn't even be here if she wasn't Over The Moon Entirely about this.

Which, really, suited him just fine, seeing as he found himself trapped in that state as well.

"You brought it with you, yeah?" She asked.

He rolled his eyes, locked the door with the same charm he'd locked the cupboard with, followed her example and sat down next to her. "Oh, I'm sorry, was that the point of the evening?"

She glared at him pointedly, but paid no heed to his remark. "You made sure to put that Illusion Charm on your bed?"

"God help me if you're going to pretend I'm retarded for the rest of the night, Weasley," he sneered, his genuine enervation obvious by his use of her last name. He liked calling her Rose, for that implied an intimacy that was virtually non-existent, but fuck if _this_ wasn't pissing him off.

"Just want to be safe, that's all."

"Life," he began patronisingly, "is grander than titles and rankings."

He noticed how a slight blush formed on her cheeks as she didn't miss the reference to the last time he'd said that. A sardonic pleasure flushed through him – if she got under his skin, he could very well try to get under hers as well.

"Yeah, until you actually _lose_ them," she replied drily, returning to her usual pale colour.

He took that in consideration, realised she had a point and said, "Like you'd have to worry about that."

Her cheeks reddened again – only this time he was fairly sure it wasn't from embarrassment. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Don't be daft," he said impatiently. "You're Rose fucking Weasley. You could kill someone innocent, be caught literally red-handed, and they'd probably still give you a medal or something."

"Oh, damn _you_, Malfoy," she spat, a venom in her tone that reminded him of their infamous Post Hook-up Conversation. "Cry me a river! It's not like _you_'ve got it so bad either!"

"Eh, I don't think we've been properly introduced. Hello, Scorpius _Malfoy_, part of the family that are either traitors or filthy Death Eaters but both ways _screwed_," he says, bitter, extending his hand mockingly.

She eyes it in a mix of distaste and something else. "Poor, poor baby."

And this, he thought wickedly, was exactly why he and Rose Weasley would never, _ever_ work. In a physical sense maybe, yeah, but that was fucking _it_, with her scathing attitude reserved only for him, with her stupid family and her stupid friends and her stupid pedestal, with her brain that functioned two hundred kilometres per hour and her hair that made her unable to miss in crowds and her freckles on the bridge of her nose and – God, _why_ did he want her?

"You're a proper bitch, did you know that?" He commented thinly.

"And _you're_ the first to tell me, so I think you might be a bit biased."

"Anyone else is simply too blinded by your family name to see it," he snapped. "That, and they're also painfully bloody _obtuse_."

A hurt expression passed over her face, but she masked it so quickly it almost seemed the work of a professional, and all that's left was the straight and uptight persona that's so like her. "Cheers for the insight, Malfoy. Now, would you care to carry on with what we're here for in the first place, or would you like to nag some more?"

_Infuriating_ didn't even cover it.

"As I recall," he said icily, "you're in this because of me, so don't _test_ _me_."

"You won't throw me out," she responded confidently.

He narrowed his eyes. "Why the hell wouldn't I?"

"Because _I know your secret_."

Now that was a low blow – because, really, what the hell, hadn't she promised not to tell anything if she backed out or was forced to? Wasn't she going all... high and mighty secretive before? _Had he pushed a button he hadn't known she owned? _

"It's private possession and not life-threatening. They can't confiscate it."

This was worse than their usual sparring.

This was biting like acid. This was imprinting itself on both their minds because there was no teasing undertone and they were dead serious – unlike most of the battles of wits they'd had in past.

"So tell me to go," she said, stressing the words with clear-cut pronunciation, challenging him with pursed lips. "Since you're so awfully sure of yourself."

He didn't think it through when he answered in an instant, "Go."

And so, the realisation that that might've been a mistake only dawned upon him when he watched her pulling her bag over her shoulder and shoving her chair backwards harshly. By the looks of it the fight had gotten to her (_good_, he added maliciously) and even though, yeah, he'd asked her here because he _did_ need her colossal brain, his pride forbade him to make a pathetic love fool out of himself by jumping up, grabbing her wrist and begging her to stay.

Although, _damn it all to hell_, he couldn't deny he felt the urge, and...

B-A-M.

The door slammed shut.

Aggressively.

He stared at it, forgetting to blink until the surface of his iris started to water. The echo of the sound rang in his ears and he wondered what the hell just happened – how it started and how it escalated so incredibly quickly. He couldn't wrap himself around the events and kept staring at the stupid wooden door while mulling over it, waiting for his (impossibly great, yeah, _right_) intellect to come up with a solution or an explanation or whatever.

It took about ten whole minutes of staring before the scenery changed.

Because – and he couldn't believe it at first – she walked right back in.

"I'm sorry."

He very nearly choked.

"I shouldn't have belittled you," she started, face well crimson, "it's just that you belittled me first and it's a seriously sour spot for me, 'cause," she inhaled deeply, then continued rambling, "people always expect me to be nice and smart and loyal and brave, and Jesus, they still think I get everything handed on a silver platter because of my family name – and it's _not_ like that!" She used her hands a lot while talking, he noticed, when she really got into it. "I'm under this huge pressure because of my parents, and I can't save the world, yeah? Even if there actually _was_ a threatening force I _still_ wouldn't be – "

"Shut up," he interrupted her swiftly, and she did. "I get it, okay? Apology accepted." And then, because it was obligatory (... he couldn't _mean_ it, he couldn't possibly, _could he_?) "I'm sorry too. I get defensive over being a Malfoy, you know, because it's _shit_, and everyone knows it's shit."

She nodded, rather nervously, "Yeah, alright."

And that was it.

The air was no longer polluted by anger and vexation and grudges. She sat down at the exact same place, folded her hands and sort-of-smiled, "Reckon we should start, then."

A relief (why, why, _why_?) washed over him as he agreed and bent down to get the locket out. The way they both leaned closer to it when he'd put it on the table was both thrilling and dangerous, for the amount of desire this object generated was exactly that – _thrilling and dangerous_. He knew what to do with the feeling – hell , he'd felt it more than he cared to admit – but it was all new to her, which became crystal once she ran her finger over the sapphires in a careful yet determined fashion.

"Open it," she demanded, but immediately toned down after thinking of before, "..._please_."

He obliged immediately, a click loud and clear in the room.

He'd looked at the locket many times before, but Rose hadn't. Her eyes almost bulged out as the content showed itself – no more than a little mirror, reflecting her own self as she grabbed the locket.

"What _now_?"

"Wait and see."

She waited.

And saw.

As he knew it would, a string of words appeared in the mirror. She wrapped the rest of the necklace around her arm and held up higher the locket – squinting her eyes so she could read better.

"_If you break me, I do not stop working. If you touch me, I may be snared. If you lose me, nothing will matter_."

Riddles.

In order to produce results, Rowena Ravenclaw had brought in riddles. Just like the unconventional way one could enter the Ravenclaw's dormitories. _That's_ why he'd asked Rose – because he figured she'd be well trained.

"That's ridiculously easy," she said, looking up. "It's a – "

"Heart, yeah," he finished for her.

"So that's it?"

The mirror answered her by coming up with a new text. This time he scooted closer and read it out loud from over her shoulder, "_Until I am measured, I am not known. Yet how you'll miss me, when I've flown_."

"Can't be too difficult either..."

"What about life?" He offered. "Until it's registered, it cannot be known, and when someone's gone..."

She shook her head. He felt a twinge of annoyance, because it _could_ be right, it fitted rather nicely, yet he knew it wasn't, because the question didn't vanish, the words remaining teasingly solid.

"You don't have to take it so literally," she explained. "You have to think of _expressions_. Language is important when it comes to riddles. So, Scorpius, what _flies, _other than your broom and birds?"

"If you know it just _say_ so. I didn't invite you to _teach_ me," he muttered petulantly, hating being bested.

Her smile was full-blown by now. "Time."

He groaned at himself. He would've guessed that... eventually.

"I love this," she beamed, before reading on, "_My thunder comes before the lightning, my lightning comes before the clouds, my rain dries all the land it touches_."

He tried to reason, but no sudden revelation sprang from his deciphering skills. When Rose kept her silence as well, he asked, "Well, Sherlock, what _dries all land when it touches_?"

He half-hoped she'd come up with the answer and half-hoped she wouldn't. His mind preferred the first and his ego the latter – a clash he'd come to know well over the years of being exactly who he was. His rationality told him this was the easy way out – let _her_ think, let _her_ solve the case... but there was always this little voice, reaching from behind his neck, feeding him empty theories that it was supposed to be _him_ because it was _always_ supposed to be him...

"A volcano," he said, suddenly, without consideration. "It makes sense."

"No, it – "

Her retort fell dead when the words made place for new ones.

"How did you know that?"

"I wasn't even thinking about it intensely," he shrugged. "I was thinking about... destructive things, and it was like an epiphany."

"Oh, lovely," she said, and he couldn't even make out if she was being sarcastic or not. He guessed she faced the same internal struggle as he was. They'd been rivals for most of their time in Hogwarts and that couldn't be suddenly turned around now they had a common 'enemy' – it was an instilled sense, an _instinct_.

"_I never was, am always to be," _he started off, not musing over her comment, "_No one ever saw me, albeit perhaps you will. Yet I am the confidence of all, to live and breathe on this terrestrial ball._"

"How much more are there going to be?" Rose asked, biting her lip. "Does it actually end at some point?"

He turned to face her and said, "It does. I've tried it before, naturally... and after answering four questions, the mirror always goes blank... Any idea what this might mean?" Then, before she had the chance to reply, "And _yes_. I've looked it up. I found nothing."

"No, but we can find out. Think about the riddle," she suggested, gazing at the mystery in front of her. "_I never was, am always to be_... It has to be something constant, then, right, like a force of nature."

"Or something that's not concrete," he tried. "Something like... silence, but then not silence, because that's not a confidence of all."

She nodded in agreement. "Yeah, terrestrial ball is the earth though, I assume."

"I worked that out as well," he said, and it suddenly hit him that they were _working together_. Not trying to outdo each other – really, honestly, working _together_ to come up with a solution _together_.

"Hey," she said loudly, "you said it stopped after four questions, right? Well, the first question was a reference to its function... what if the last one is as well?"

"Time has always been and will always be... It's a force of nature and it isn't concrete... You can't see it but perhaps _we_ will – "

"Tomorrow!" Rose nearly yelled. "It's tomorrow, because it's the confidence of all, and – "

"You're _right_," he cut in.

They both gaped at the mirror in complete fascination, anticipating whatever was to come with racing hearts. It didn't escape Scorpius' notice that the moment was rather... bonding (damn him if he didn't think of youth movements, or worse, _loony Gryffindors sitting around a campfire_ whenever that word came up) and her hand was lying dangerously close to his. Not that he'd take it or anything – just the _thought_ of holding hands in a sober state alone made him want to throw up – but he was just... aware of it, is all.

"The words are gone," Rose states, "but nothing happens!"

"Well, fuck. I thought something would happen if I asked you to help," he blinked, the lack of images in the mirror tainting him.

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you're a Ravenclaw, perhaps?"

"Apparently that doesn't cut it..."

When he twisted his neck to look at her profile, he saw that her eyelids were pressed closed and her eyebrows were knotted. Picture Perfect Rose wasn't so perfect now, he understood, taking in her visible disappointment – slumping shoulders, gritted teeth, thrown off balance. That was it, he realised, she was _thrown off balance_.

But then again, so was _he_.

He'd genuinely thought her Ravenclaw status would allow them the insight Rowena had to offer. He'd hardly slept the night before, raking over all the possibilities, all the answers, all the clarity... He'd been like a man dying of thirst with a bottle of water finally in his reach. And now, this very minute, it dawned on him that he wouldn't be in for something greater. His knowledge wouldn't surpass boundaries. And neither would hers.

"I feel fucking _cheated_," she whispered, eyelids fluttering open, and he figured the only reason why she spoke this softly was because there were only a mere inches apart – something that made him feel dismantled, strangely, because he was never _this_ close with someone. He'd had a lot of female curves rubbed up against him, technically connected with his, but he never... _felt_ it, never wanted to feel it, detached and cool as his inexplicable heart forced him to be. Yet is was different, somehow, this time, because he felt like shit and so did she, and he could see himself _cheering her up_. He felt close to her, because at that moment she was the only person in the whole wide world who could grasp his disillusionment.

"You felt like you were destined to be something more," he said quietly. "You felt like you should've seen, because you deserve the steps ahead of everyone else..."

She turned to him with a scrutinising look. "How do you – " She stopped abruptly. "Oh."

"You're not superior because of your _parents_, Rose," he murmured, thinking, _why the hell am I doing this? _But was stronger than him, and he heard himself talking, "You're superior because you're you. I hate you, yeah, but you're distinct and _no one else_ is distinct. I hardly know you, and still, sometimes I think I understand you better than everyone else – "

He probably would've said something else insightful and pretty and _whatever_, but then, out of nowhere, the redhead placed a hand on each side of his jaw and _kissed_ him.

He could not have been more baffled.

She fucking _kissed_ him.

It was nothing like last time. He was sober, for one, he was so sober he could probably walk miles and miles on straight line and sing the national anthem with all the right notes and all the right lyrics. There was no pressed need, no rush, no urgency – yet there was only firework in his vision and crackling in his hearing sense, a clenched stomach and a feeling he was falling, slowly, somehow, _falling_...

Jesus Christ – it couldn't be, like... He couldn't be in love with her, could he?

And yet her mouth on his felt glorious, whereas he knew it shouldn't. Her hands had moved to his hair and her taking control was terribly degrading for him yet undeniably attractive at the same time... God, how had he even _survived_ last time when he shagged her? How come he hadn't dropped dead in total agony/euphoria somewhere in the middle of the play?

(Now, maybe he had. It's not like he remembered _that_ much of it. Maybe he'd sucked miserably – he wouldn't even _know_.)

"Shit," she pulled away, all of a sudden, "Shit, no, this is not what I intended!"

Well, he thought, too fucking late now. Her pupils were dilated and her breathing hitched – she wouldn't be able to deny it even if she tried. Nevertheless, she stood up, hastily as if been burned, took two big steps away from him and stammered, "Fuck, Scorpius, I'm sorry, it's not – "

He shook his head.

He was dazed and tired. He was blurred and couldn't recall ever being _this_ messed up over something _so_ little.

"You're right, I get it." He pointed at the door. "You can go if you want."

And when did he become so bloody _nice_?

"Uhu," she said shakily, almost _stumbling_ to the door. "I'll... I'll see you around, yeah?"

He did nothing to stop her when her hand turned around the doorknob.

Maybe, as it occurred to him, maybe they were never supposed to see their future in the first place.

* * *

Spot any mistakes, feel free to point 'em out...  
And review or something, that would be nice!

Ciaoo

Josephine


	6. Sloth

No one's going to review this chapter. Surprised I wrote at all. Favourite writer/greatest idol of my life died last week (Jim Carroll). I'm officially sad. Be nice.

**Disclaimer**: no copyright infringement intended, J.K. Rowling owns all familiarities.

* * *

_in the safety of a pitch black mind  
an airless cell that blocks the day  
oh well, okay_

_if you a get a feeling the next time you see me  
do me a favor and let me know  
'cos it's hard to tell  
it's hard to say  
oh well, okay_

Elliott Smith – 'Oh well, okay'

* * *

**6. S L O T H  
**

The disappointment was so great it physically ached.

It made her head ache. It kept her up at night – tiny little voice in the back of her mind; an ugly reminder of what _could've_ been and what _hadn't_ – and made her go to classes with circles under her eyes and a tiredness that could not exclusively be written off to lack of sleep. He'd summed it up accurately, Malfoy, the Big Blond Bastard who wasn't such a bastard after all, about her being 'destined' for something more – not that she believed in destiny, really, and neither did he, probably... but she was so _smart_, damn it. She was so smart and everyone kept telling her how beautiful she was, and yes, maybe she was being an utter and gigantic arrogant twat about it, but she was the daughter of _Hermione_ and _Ron Weasley (_although, no, she wasn't _them)_. Didn't that count for something? Didn't that in itself imply that she had to be something _special_?

And, seriously, what could be more special than seeing your _future_?

What could be more powerful than seeing your future in advance and therefore being able to _alter_ it?

Only the locket hadn't shown shit. It had proved to be absolutely worthless. She'd tossed and turned over something that had proved to be completely useless – and if only she hadn't been so _excited_, so entirely happy about it, to have been given the opportunity without even having to _work_ for it...

And then there had been the blank bloody mirror.

Nothing. Idle. Vacant.

Whatever.

She longed for something more. In that perspective she was exactly like everybody else on this whole wide planet – looking for something more. It was almost sickening, really, how she, Rose Weasley, could be in this much need for any kind of power or distinction (..._his_ words) knowing that it could be severely detrimental for both herself and the rest of the world (the name Voldemort did ring a bell), but in the end it only came down to making her mark on the world. She was a prefect and had been since last year, she'd almost certainly become Head Girl, she scored top marks, she was Ravenclaw's Very Own Golden Girl...

She just didn't know it that sealed the deal. If it was enough. If it was going to keep her satisfied.

She didn't even know what would satisfy her. Maybe that was the issue.

And, yeah, okay, not to forget, there was Scorpius Malfoy whom she had impulsively kissed, accidentally or not so accidentally (_who even knew these days?_).

That was another memory to keep her awake. Because – was _he_ enough? She'd kissed him because she'd felt like he really got her in that moment, a palpable understanding forming bridges between the two of them... But still. She'd swore she'd never do that again, because, _duh_, it was Scorpius fucking _Malfoy_, hence the last name. Never mind the blushing, never mind warm, tingly speck that had expanded all the way from her guts to the rest of her insides. Never mind the diminishing of rationality and never fucking mind she had the worst teenage girl crush on him that would probably cause embarrassment for many years to come.

She'd said it before - it wasn't _logical_.

It wasn't like he could be her Something More. She wouldn't even look for that in love – it was stupid and naive and if they'd still be talking, he'd agree, she was sure of that. She'd spent an awful lot of time in a good relationship and if Lysander hadn't been able to bring her the thrill she anticipated, then Scorpius Malfoy sure as hell wouldn't either.

Or at least that was what she kept telling herself.

* * *

The escalation of inward drama occurred on Monday morning at the breakfast table.

"Earth to Rose Weasley!" said Louis loudly, one hand stirring his coffee and the other waving in front of her vision. When she snapped her head up after she realised she'd been staring at her plate, he sighed, "Jesus, what's the matter with you? You've been out of it all week."

"No, I haven't," she denied flatly, more out of habit than anything else.

"Uhu, okay," he snorted. "Just tell me what's up, yeah?" Then, pointedly, "I'm your _best mate_."

When she turned to him she noticed genuine concern in his expression. Swallowing a bile of discomfort, she muttered, "It's nothing. Just tired."

He gave her a disbelieving look. "Liar," he replied, and placed his two thumbs on the two corners of her mouth, pushing them upwards. She instinctively pushed him off, but couldn't help but laugh at his forced attempt to make her smile. His face immediately brightened at her reaction and he said, "See? Smiling isn't too hard, now _is it_?"

"No," she agreed nicely.

When Louis wanted to say something else, he was interrupted by the storm of owls that entered the Great Hall and the clattering noise they brought with them. Not expecting anything besides the Daily Prophet, Rose hardly looked up. When an all too familiar owl threw a letter on her sandwich, however, her attention was shifted to the mail. She instantly recognised her father's sloppy handwriting on the front – she raked her brain to remember if she wrote any letters this week, but didn't come up with anything.

"Oh, it's your dad?" Louis asked while eyeing the first page of his paper.

"Yeah," she said distractedly, opening the letter. "Reckon someone died or something?"

Louis rolled his eyes. "God, you're morose. Morose – Mo Rose, ha-ha-ha."

She shot him a glare as punishment for the very bad lingual joke, and wisely ignored him further, instead unfolding the piece of parchment in her hands.

_ROSE WEASLEY, _

(A shot of panic ran through her – for even though her father wasn't the prince of calligraphy, he _could_ distinguish his capitals from his normal writing. The fact that her name was written like this meant trouble. She took a sip of black coffee to downplay her nerves.)

_I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS. TODAY THE AUNT OF A FRIEND OF A FRIEND OF NEVILLE'S DAUGHTER INFORMED ME THAT YOU ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF A SORDID AFFAIR WITH SCORPIUS MALFOY!!!_

(She spluttered. Nearly choked. Started coughing and received strange glances from the rest of the table while Louis patted her back with raised eyebrows.)

_Now, as you are very sensible and my daughter, I would like to give you the benefit of the doubt. However, IF THERE IS ONLY THE SLIGHTEST BIT OF TRUTH IN THIS RUMOUR THEN WE ARE NOT FINISHED TALKING!!! MALFOYS ARE EVIL, DESPICABLE WIZARDS BY DEFINITION AND AS I SAID, GRANDPA WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU IF YOU MARRY A PUREBLOOD, ESPECIALLY ONE OF THIS SORT. _

(If this were anyone but her, she'd die of a laughing fit. Unfortunately, she was now most likely to die of something else entirely.)

_Love,_

_Dad_

_Ps: in case you're wondering why I didn't send a Howler, it's because you're mum is unaware of this. Let's keep it that way, alright?_

She remained shell-shocked for five long seconds, but regained her composure after Louis nudged her a few times. Even she couldn't fail to marvel at the idiocy that was her father sometimes, and the horror of the whole ordeal was that A) he was right in more ways than she liked to admit, which subsequently led to B) her lying or admitting the truth to him, which would either result in C) feeling bad about lying, or D) disownment.

_Fuck this_, she thought grimly.

At first, it was the Who Ratted Me Out question that kept her occupied, narrowing her eyes at Linda Longbottom, who was eating her breakfast peacefully at the Hufflepuff table. Although, she realised, it was hardly the girl's fault anyway – _everyone_ had been talking about it, and she couldn't have been scheming because, well, she was a _Hufflepuff_, and, admittedly, lacking in required intelligence for complots. At the same time she dismissed the question, Louis spoke up again.

"Everything alright?"

She nodded vaguely, tossing the letter in his direction. "Read it."

"Jesus, that's – " Louis started, scanning over the text, but dropped the sentence as he saw Rose looking to the other side. "Oh, hi Lysander."

From the corner of her eye, Rose saw him crumbling the letter subtly and putting it into his pocket, for which she was silently grateful. Lysander had showed up out of nowhere, messy-haired and handsome, and was now in process of taking a seat next to her, (kindly) shoving someone else out of the way.

"Hey, what's up?" he asked neutrally. Even if he'd noticed, he pretended not to see the many people casting looks their way.

"Well, you know," she smiled. "Not much. The usual."

It was somewhat strange considering all that had happened in the past week, but this felt absolutely natural, in a familiar sort of way – like the smell of her mother's perfume when she came home every Christmas break, or the stupid grin on Louis's face when she tickled him. It reminded her of the evening they'd sat in the library together, reading in complete silence while the awkwardness subdued in the span of a mere few minutes. Maybe she did miss him, after all, because he had been a consistency and, as she wondered, _don't we _all_ depend on consistencies?_

"So I was thinking," he cleared his throat, "that maybe we should hang out. Hogsmeade next weekend, for example."

For the second time that morning, she felt like she'd been Stunned.

"Like – on a _date_?"

His face fell slightly. "No! I mean – yeah, but not, like, I don't know..."

_Just say yes or no, Lysander_, she thought tiredly. An almost supernatural force caused her to steal a glance towards the Slytherin table, even though she already knew Malfoy wasn't there (not that she'd _checked_ or anything – _honestly_!). A sudden picture of what they would look like as a couple flashed before her eyes – him, being a cool, collected prick somewhere, and her, alone and desperate. She shuddered at the mental image and damned her traitorous hormones with every insult in the Oxford dictionary.

"I'll go with you," she said resolutely.

He seemed surprised, Louis pinched her leg as a warning, and she herself tore away her gaze from the empty seat next to Stephano Zabini (who was now giving her a meaningful smirk – _the_ _bastard_).

"I mean," she continued, "it could be fun, right?"

"For old time's sake," he nodded, his face almost splitting in two because of his smile.

She raised her cup. "For old time's sake."

And that fucked up feeling in her guts?

She shrugged it off.

* * *

The news travelled fast, spread around the castle like wildfire. It took ten minutes for Louis to complain (_"You dumped him for a reason, Rose!"_), thirty minutes for Lily to squeal excitedly, an hour for her Charms professor to give them both a wink, and twelve hours for Malfoy to seek her out.

She was at the library – her personal exile – preparing an essay for Herbology when it happened. She'd been calm, not expecting anyone because of the time and spot she'd picked out, and she hadn't been aware of his presence until she heard footsteps coming her way, perceiving the figure creeping out of the shadows from the corner of her eye.

"Sorry, occupied," she murmured, not looking up.

"You're pathetic."

She frowned as she recognised his drawling voice and unmistakably biting tone. She kept her gaze trained on the book, the drawings and phrases growing blurry.

"I thought we had a silent agreement not to talk."

Because, really, _that_ had been better.

She heard him moving. The next thing she knew was his finger tilting up her chin, forcing her to do the last thing she desired – to _see_ him, icy and detached, so different from the boy she'd had in her grasp the last two times. His blond locks, his school uniform, the painfully impassive face – it was so ridiculously pristine it made her want to do something drastic to it, like, throw a bucket of pink paint over him, or... rip his clothes. Her breath caught in her throat for a nanosecond and from sudden very slight smirk she could tell he'd seen – fucking _teenage girl feelings. _

"And _I_ thought you'd never be retarded enough to get back with Lysander," he said mercilessly. "Guess we're all _well_ fucked up in our assumptions, aren't we?"

She wanted to defend herself, but for once she didn't know what to say. In the end she objected, "We're not back together. Not... necessarily."

_Not... necessarily_.

The choice was bold and underlined, and perhaps she'd already made it this morning. But then again – what could he offer her, exactly? Did he even offer her _anything_? He'd slept with her, yeah, he'd been nice and he'd kissed her back, but had he proclaimed his love for her?

She nearly scoffed at herself.

_Of course fucking not_.

Did he even have the _smallest_ clue what love could possibly be?

(Did _she_?)

_Of course fucking not. _

"The certainty in that statement is simply astounding," drawled Malfoy, coldness radiating from his every pore. She felt goose bumps coming up, but one peek to her arm told her she'd imagined it.

"What are you doing here?"

It was a simple question and she didn't bother to hide her hostility.

"I needed a book from this section," he answered automatically.

He didn't give away anything. She wondered if she'd stared long enough she would be able to see if he was lying, but nothing about him changed. Pokerfaced. Always dispassionate except for the times he _hadn't_ been (but she couldn't allow herself to think about that – not now, not tomorrow, not _ever_).

"So," she tried courageously. "It's over, then?"

Not that there was anything to begin with. Some stupid drunken hook-up and a fake locket and a kiss. Combine the three and there was the equivalent of nothing. _Nothing, zilch, nada_, she summed up in her head, _fucking zero_.

"If you say so." He had the decency to _shrug_. "Yeah, whatever."

And it sounded so definite, so careless, a wretched irritation welt up in her.

_This_ is why it wouldn't have worked anyway, had there been the possibility – because he was difficult and a Malfoy and mean and she didn't have it in her to pull it off. _Sordid affair... Evil, despicable wizards by definition..._ Her father's words were loud and blindingly clear in her memory, nauseating her as she watched Malfoy dismissing her and searching for his book.

"You're pathetic too," she remarked when he took it out of the shelves. "You have no right to be upset about Lysander and me. It didn't mean anything – you and I."

She'd said it to hurt him. To make him feel.

Something.

"Who said I was upset? I merely voiced my _humble_ opinion," he retaliated. "Of course it didn't mean anything."

The red light of her very own Failure button flashed dangerously.

"Just... so we're clear."

"We're clear," he repeated.

Then, with the book under his arm, he left without another word.

_Frigid_ – her whispers echoed through the room – _frigid, frigid, frigid_.

* * *

The following morning she was the first to get out of bed and wrote back to her father.

_Dad, _

_Don't worry. It's just a rumour. I really can't understand where they're getting it from, but I can assure you there's nothing going on between me and Scorpius Malfoy. Just imagine the effort and pain it would cost me if that would ever happen! I think even I am too lazy for that. _

_Either way, I know you didn't ask, but I'm fine. Lysander and I are okay, my grades have been good and as far as I can tell, the rest of our family is doing great. _

_Louis says hi, _

_Love,  
Rose_

_PS: My lips are sealed. _

It was short and to the point, exactly like her, and just because he was Ron Weasley, her dad would never read between the lines – he wouldn't doubt her sincerity. She stared after the owl as it flew into the sunrise, its silhouette painted against the tangerine sky, and told herself it wouldn't be that bad, going back to Before – Lysander, comfortable dating, no extraordinary locket to speak of, no thrills of impulsive kisses to enlighten her... It would save her the effort, at least, as she wrote to her father. Because, as she'd learned this week; ambition was what she aimed for but couldn't bring ease.

It wasn't until the owl was out of sight and the taste of salt on her lips that she realised she was crying.

* * *

I wasn't in a Long Sentence Endless Description Mode, obviously.

See you in my mailbox (hopefully)  
Josephine


	7. Envy

Final installment, woo-hoo.

Cheers for all the feedback.

Wrote everything in one go, so if it sucks...

**Disclaimer:** do not own blah blah blah.

* * *

_Now they're going to bed  
And my stomach is sick  
And it's all in my head  
But she's touching his chest  
Now, he takes off her dress  
Now, letting me go_

Killers – 'Mr. Brightside'

* * *

**7. E N V Y**

He'd slept with Mary Clearwater once.

He'd been fifteen, intoxicated from at least six full glasses of Firewhiskey – a completely incoherent jumbled mess. Slytherin had lost the House and Quidditch Cup to Ravenclaw and Gryffindor respectively, and his father had been far from pleased – a disappointed letter to be thrown on the pile. He'd had the romantic notion that if only he drank enough, the unease would vanish, but instead he ended up with a naked Clearwater under his sheets and a pumping head the next morning. He'd felt a wild shot of panic (_Mary Clearwater? Pause, rewind, play again, vomit), _abandoned all Malfoy manners, and shook her awake roughly. After she'd collected her clothes, she looked at him.

"Scorpius," she said. "I liked you a lot, you know that?"

Disgusted face on his part – no worthy reply.

"One day," she continued after that, "you'll fall in love with someone who doesn't want you back."

He'd laughed at her. Clearwater was, after all, idiocy personified.

The moment he walked away from Rose in the library, however, the memory hit him square in the face.

* * *

"I need your help."

Stephano groaned loudly while pressing his hand palms against his closed eyelids. "Fuck you, man. I was sleeping."

Scorpius rolled his eyes, rapidly becoming annoyed. His best mate slept like a log, and if it weren't for his snoring, he would've thought the Italian wizard to be dead as a doornail. It'd taken him literally fifteen minutes (fifteen minutes of his oh so very valuable time _gone to waste, _he thought grimly) to wake Stephano up – pulling, yelling, punching and pinching included. In the end he'd resorted to drastic measures and cast a small blasting spell next to the other boy's ear.

That'd sorted him out good and proper.

Scorpius smirked.

"Don't be a lazy twat. You've got friendship obligations."

"To which friend?" Stephano muttered needlessly, his voice dimmed because of the pillow.

"Me, of course," said Scorpius mockingly. "Best friends forever, _remember_?"

Stephano slowly turned his way. The look he shot the blond wasn't Best Friends Forever material in the least, but Scorpius couldn't care less – he rewarded Stephano with a smile so blinding and huge that even a _Hufflepuff_ would've noticed it was fake.

_And that was saying something._

"You're such a girl."

Scorpius patted Stephano on the back when finally a slight grin began to form on his tanned face. "Only for you, Zabini."

Stephano frowned at him in distaste, pretending to crawl away carefully, but the growing grin gave him away. His eyes were now fully opened and clear – a sign he was fully awake.

"Do you need me to braid your hair or paint your nails?"

"Are we going to sing songs too?"

Stephano chuckled. "Yeah, The Weird Sisters. So many old hits, mate."

"God, I _hate_ The Weird Sisters."

Stephano popped himself up his elbows and shook his head in pseudo disappointment. "I already knew you had issues... but _this_? This is just plain bad taste, if not worse." Then, when Scorpius opened his mouth to drill Stephano's feeble insult into the ground, he cut him off. "_Anyway_. What do you need me for?"

"I need to you to expand your lovely twosome to a foursome this afternoon," stated Scorpius matter-of-factly. "Tell Vanessa to bring a friend. A hot one, preferably." He arched an eyebrow in thought for a split second. "No, scratch that. Not preferably. _Compulsory_."

"And what if I want to be alone with Vanessa on our first date?" Stephano asked in a dry tone.

"Then I'll have her know that you happen to have warts on your family jewels."

Stephano's expression funnily morphed into one of sheer horror. He kicked Scorpius' back with his foot from under the covers and glared loopholes through his deadly smug face. "You're a fucking wanker, yeah? I don't have warts, _anywhere_."

As if _that_ was the point.

Scorpius merely got off the bed in response, placidly straightening his robe. When he was done disposing himself of all the imaginary dirt, he sarcastically formed a heart with his two index fingers and thumbs, and walked away backwards – his back turned to the door. Stephano's lips were set into a thing line, but Scorpius knew he wasn't angry. Not _really_.

(They'd seen each other naked, remember?)

"I'll see you later," Scorpius saluted. "Don't forget – she needs to be hot. Because, you know, _warts_."

Stephano didn't even bother to respond.

Scorpius left with a feeling that could be classified as satisfaction, but wasn't really. It would've been if only it wasn't so uncharacteristically artificial, if it wasn't so obviously above the surface. The truth was that he really did need his best friend's help – not to find a date, but to entertain him, to amuse him, to distract him from the fact that he'd fucked everything up with the one girl who might've held his interest for longer than one week and that said girl was going out with her ex-boyfriend today.

He might've been joking around with Stephano, but he felt like shit.

He'd felt like shit the entire week.

He wanted to screw her over. It was just that he very pathetically ached for a mental support while doing so – even if that mental support came from someone who hardly knew what Scorpius was up to. Stephano would never approve of anything that would deliberately hurt Rose... but wasn't he _entitled_ to? Didn't he have the right after she'd so stupidly gone back to the whipped Scamander pansy while they were clearly in the middle of some... he shuddered at the term, but... _blossoming_ liaison? He wasn't ready to give it up yet – he wasn't done with her, with _them_. He was fascinated by her and had remained so after getting to know her, and fuck _that_, because those things didn't happen to him. He was always in control – but then she had to go and ruin his whole strategy, using him and teasing him and Jesus, going back to her ex, prompting him to suddenly _miss_ things.

He was an apathetic person. He didn't _do_ nostalgia or melancholy by definition.

Except now he kind of did.

He was now the fish on dry land. The fucking drowning cat.

But maybe that wasn't the worst thing – that rather empty gut feeling when he thought about her (and he thought about her more than he cared to admit). The worst thing was the fact that she made him doubt himself. Sometimes he stared at her, at him, at the sickening two of them, and wondered what the hell Lysander Scamander had that he didn't have. He wondered if he wasn't good enough, if it really was essentially _him_, if she just thought he wasn't worth it. And when they weren't in his eyesight and classes were over, paranoia overthrew him – _what_ _are they doing?_ When he left her in the library – _what did she do afterwards? _And when sometimes she cast him a casual glance – _does she think about me?_

It was so depreciating it made him want to gauge his eyes out.

And for that reason, that specific reason, he wanted to screw her over.

* * *

She was blonde and had a big rack.

That was the only thing that occurred to Scorpius when Stephano introduced him to Charlotte Ackerley, a fifth year Ravenclaw, when they'd entered the Three Broomsticks. He'd seen her around the castle – after six years you do recognise people's faces, after all – but never talked to her, and had never intended to. He asked himself why that was, but then came to the conclusion that he'd never had the chance to do so while drunk. He tended to dislike people when his mind functioned decently – it was a sad thing, but he needed alcohol to get along with the rest of the world; to compromise. And, in all honestly, this girl looked like she could need some compromising.

Too bad Vanessa Boot was already taken.

"Hello, Charlotte," he said suavely, taking the chair next to her. "I'm Scorpius Malfoy."

"I know who you are," she said neutrally.

While her mouth moved he noticed her lips were thin. This inexplicably irritated him, but when he realised he was comparing them to _Rose's_, he quickly shrugged it off. "And is that a good or a bad thing?"

Stephano snorted. "Could that ever be a good thing?"

Apparently the events of this morning weren't _too_ far behind him.

"You tell me," Charlotte responded, cocking her head slightly.

She was conventionally pretty, but he guessed that was because of her hair and her typical blue eyes. Her cheeks were slightly plumb and he thought she looked reasonably boring. He didn't like her voice either – it was rather high-pitched, whereas...

_Of course_.

Just when the sound of Rose's hoarse voice entered his head, the girl herself came in, Scamander in her wake. Her face was red (_how convenient_, he couldn't help but think evilly), her hair in a disarray, her Ravenclaw scarf draped around her neck carelessly, and her hand entwined with his.

The _other_ boy.

_One day_, Clearwater repeated in the back of his head, pestering him, _one day you'll fall in love with someone who doesn't want you back. _

He wanted to turn away. He wanted to focus back on whatever Charlotte or Vanessa or Stephano was saying – that would probably be better for his sanity – but he couldn't, and his gaze remained plastered on the interaction that occurred between her and Scamander. Perhaps it was a serious case of sadomasochism, but he couldn't do anything about it, in spite of the grip that was tightening firmer and firmer around his throat.

He said something, she nodded.

He pulled out a chair for her, she smiled.

The waiter came, she ordered for both of them.

He told a joke, she laughed.

He touched her cheek, she looked at –

"... So yeah, what do you think about that? Branstone scores only half my grades and she still gets appointed prefect! I'm smart, aren't I? I'm basically a model student! Isn't that what the prefect status requires?"

_Scorpius_.

Rose had finally seen him.

"_Scorpius_," Charlotte said loudly, snapping her fingers next to his ear. "Did you hear what I just told you?"

"That Branstone made prefect and you didn't," he mumbled, instantly reverting his attention back to her. He couldn't let Rose in on anything concerning his current misery. She didn't deserve to know what effect she had on him. "I'm sorry," he said smoothly. "I'm listening. You're right. You're smart."

"You can't know that. We just met," she remarked primly.

He literally had to keep his eyeballs down to refrain them from flying upwards. "Well, you're a Ravenclaw, for one. And you wouldn't have said that if you were a dumb bimbo."

She seemed slightly appeased after that, and even smiled at him. He took this opportunity to scoot somewhat closed and silently wished Rose was looking and would keep doing so just like he had before. The smell of Charlotte's perfume washed over him, and it wasn't even so bad. Not intoxicating – but not bad either. Somewhere in the middle.

"Well, I'm not dumb," she said again, "just so you know."

"Why are you so keen on telling me that?"

"Because you're Scorpius Malfoy. Your grades would be the best if it weren't for, well, Rose Weasley, but she hardly counts anyway."

He was fairly flattered, he had to admit. "Why doesn't she count?"

"Because the girl's a _machine_," she stated simply. When she saw his blank face, she elaborated, "She looks amazing, her grades are amazing, her boyfriend is amazing – need I go on? There's something weird about that level of perfection."

_Yeah, it needs to be mutilated_, he thought. "She's probably not _that_ perfect."

"Well, no. There's always that rumour about you and her..."

He almost started crying in terror (...figuratively speaking, _duh_) at her oh so unsubtle attempt to get inside gossip, but one glance back at Rose and Scamander's nauseating love fest, and he decided to humour her. "Which rumour exactly?"

"The one from the Ravenclaw party, you know?"

"Oh, that one," Vanessa suddenly butted in. "Yeah, I want to know that too, Scorpius."

It was only because she was Stephano's date that he didn't strangle her. Fortunately, Stephano tugged at Vanessa sleeve and whispered something in her ear – something Scorpius deciphered as 'give them some privacy', but he could've been wrong.

"Everyone knows that's true, Charlotte," he said quietly, keeping his voice down unlike the last time. Of course he only did that now because it caused Charlotte lean in closer and thus, made the scene look a lot cosier and intimate than it really was.

"Must be a real tramp then," she half-whispered back. "Seeing as she's snogging Lysander again."

He jerked upright.

She was right. The damned twat was _right_. There he was – trying to semi-seduce the girl next to him for the sole reason of exasperating the real object of his affections, only to find her exchanging salvia with... with that loser! With that total, complete, unadultered _loser_!

His stomach turned. He felt physically _sick_.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, attempting to hide the obvious aversion. "Good luck to him. She was a horrible kisser."

_Too fucking bad she wasn't._

Charlotte's eyebrows shot up and he could tell she was more than interested. "Oh, was she?"

Good for him he was such a skilled liar.

"Yes. Absolutely _terrible_."

They were still kissing.

And now Scamander actually _cupping her face_.

"Excuse me," he said quickly, bitter taste on his tongue. "I need to use the loo. Be right back."

He didn't wait for her reaction. He just bolted. Dignified and sophisticated, he bolted.

He pushed the bathroom door open with unusual force, the smack against the wall loud and dangerous. He checked the room if there was anyone to be seen – even went as far as roaming his hands around in the air to make sure there were no Invisibility Cloaks present (you never knew with that stupid Weasley's Wizard Wheezes shop) – and was relieved to find no one. He swiftly flicked his wand in front of the tap and then splashed water on his hands – running it over his forehead, cheekbones and chin afterward, letting the drips glide down his neck onto his clothes. He needed refreshment. He needed to wash the picture of Rose Weasley off him. Off his mind. Off his everything. Because every time he saw her with Scamander he felt something he'd never felt before – like someone had ripped his heart out and squeezed all the life out of it.

He stared in the mirror.

He was _lovesick_. He was _literally_ lovesick.

That subsequently meant that he was _in love with her_.

That thought in itself made him want to throw up. He wasn't a fool – he wasn't weak. A coward, yeah, maybe, but not _stupid_. He wasn't programmed to really _love_. Sure, he loved Stephano to some extent, and probably his family too (even though they were total dicks half of the time), but this was different. This was much more consuming and acute and Jesus fucking Christ, he wasn't the type to go a read a girl poetry, or always hold her hand, or carry her books, or listen to her nagging, or –

"Malfoy?"

_Luckily_ he managed to cover up his distress.

"Scamander," he drawled, as normally as possibly, while turning around. "What a lovely surprise."

"Why are you so wet?" Scamander asked.

_What does Rose see in this banal idiot? _

"I think I'm coming down with a fever," answered Scorpius seriously.

A strange glint flashed in Scamander's eyes, like he somehow knew Scorpius was lying. Of course he immediately discarded that illusion, since no one, except for Stephano every now and then, saw through him when he acted a certain part, let alone Lysander Scamander whom he didn't even know well.

"You should probably go see Madame Pomfrey then."

"Probably," Scorpius agreed.

He just wanted him to fuck off, preferably forever.

Scamander then faced the wall to use the toilet – he didn't come for a little chitchat with the lad who shagged his girlfriend, after all. Scorpius unconsciously stared at the back of his head, still with that same question spooking in his brain – why _him_?

A not unfamiliar anger ran through him.

_Why not me?_

Because his clothes were nicer? Good heavens no. Because he was richer? Practically impossible. Because he had prettier skin?

Scorpius blinked.

_That was it! _

God, he was such an undeniable genius and even more undeniable, a prick. If he couldn't have her, he could still have his _revenge_, in whatever slight form. He smirked downright maliciously and murmured a non-verbal hexing spell between his teeth, so non-descript Scamander would've never, ever noticed. As he expected, Scamander did nothing but whistle momentarily, and unwittingly washed his hands next to Scorpius. Congratulating himself inwardly when the other blond was done, nodded at him and walked out the door, he felt better, albeit a little. Drying up hastily, he followed the boy's example and left the bathroom.

One look at _their_ table, and he realised he couldn't stay.

Scanning his own company, he saw that the three of them were into what seemed an interesting conversation. He thought of what Stephano would say, Charlotte would say, hell, _Vanessa_ would say if they knew, and it made him feel strangely suffocated. He sauntered out the Three Broomsticks as carefully as possible, not wanting one of them to see him and call him over. He didn't want to explain – didn't have the energy to explain.

When he stepped outisde, the icy wind whirled around him, his emotions a blended entity of envy, pride, wrath and a desire to drown himself in alcohol.

He couldn't stand seeing her any longer.

He _had_ to let go.

It was hopeless. They would never work. He knew that, she knew that, they'd both _always_ known that. There was no such thing as a Malfoy & Weasley agglomeration - it didn't exist, and it would _never_ begin to do so, for it was simply... too hard, too farfetched.

So he had to let _it_, and _her_, go.

(That, and the fact that soon Scamander's skin would turn into fur and he was far too much of a likely suspect to stick around.)

* * *

He watched her from afar and she stopped acknowledging him altogether.

Several weeks had breezed by since the last time he'd spoken to her and hexed her boyfriend. Things had fallen back into place, more or less, as he'd reverted back to his old pattern – parties, girls, no challenge. Stephano had asked him how he was doing once, he was _really_ coping, but Scorpius had reacted so annoyed he never bothered to inquire again, and that was exactly how Scorpius liked it. No questions, no difficulties. It reminded him of Rose and he only wanted to think about her when there was no Scamander involved. Unfortunately, he _always_ was.

He tried to forget her - he really did. But life wasn't that friendly, and sure as hell hadn't granted him any happiness lately. The problem was that he couldn't just take his wand, utter a charm or spell or hex, and be rid of her immediately. The matter became less pressing, less intense after a while, but it lingered. She lingered on him. As did Clearwater's statement.

He'd fallen in love with someone who didn't want him back.

And now he was paying the price.

Thoughts about Rose also reminded him of what had happened with the locket. He knew she'd been devastated, and somehow the inkling suspicion that there was something more to the locket than just some scam never truly left him. He didn't know what precisely prompted him to do it, but one Friday night he came back to his dorm early after a secret party in the Gryffindor tower because of a headache, searched for a book in a drawer in his nightstand, found the locket instead, and in a wild, crazed haze, closed the drapes around him and opened it again. Despite his headache and therefore violated brains, he managed to solve the riddles without her help. It took him exactly an hour and thirty-six minutes, but he got there, on his own, and in a startling realisation, it came to him that he _did_ learn something from her. He was so busy replaying that one evening in his mind that he almost forgot to actually look at the locket. It would've been a tragedy if he hadn't, because another text had sprung from the depth of the mirror.

'_Time,' _it read, '_is a dangerous thing to be fooled around with. In whichever circumstances it is not advised to alter it. Therefore it is absolutely impossible to see one's future unless it is completely sure that one has made peace with it and won't attempt to modify what is one's fate.'_

Then, finally, Scorpius understood.

An image, so unlikely one would never have made peace with it instantly, did appear this time, unbeknownst to Rose Weasley. It was beautiful and exceptional and brilliant.

And Scorpius Malfoy?

He smiled.

Really, _really_ smiled.

* * *

Will probably re-write a thing or two. Not the concept though.  
This is a disguised happy ending. Either I'll write a sequel or you'll have to use your own imagination to know how they get together in the end.

Don't favourite without reviewing, please, thanks.

Cheerio

(In case you didn't get the end: I'll try to put it in simple terms. Rowena Ravenlcaw designed the locket to see the future. However, she realised a lot of people would want to change it and therefore mess with time. So she only let the people who wouldn't want to change their future see what it is.  
Concrete: when Rose and Scorpius used it for the first time, nothing happened because they weren't ready for it. At the end, however, Scorpius knows he's in love with Rose and would like to be with her, so he does see his future. Thus... he sees them together.)


End file.
